


Bullet Holes and Rosaries

by Gracefully



Series: Here There Be Angels [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, angel!dick winters, hunter!lewis nixon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-13
Packaged: 2018-05-13 17:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracefully/pseuds/Gracefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis Nixon hunts (or, more accurately, researches) alone until an angel, Dick Winters, falls into his life. Dick is hurt and is being hunted by a ruthless enemy. </p><p>Companion piece/prologue to Crosshairs and Primary Feathers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shotgun Shells

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. I've been writing this 'quick one-shot' since August. I hope you all enjoy this as much as I have enjoyed writing it.   
> Please ignore the bad exposition to this 'verse in the first paragraph.

_And so the gates of Heaven stood silent, empty, for their creator had left. The angels cried, asking, ‘Where hast thou gone?’ But there was no answer._

_And so, the prophet Lekiah looked to the sky and saw the heav’nly host falling._

_They landed to the ground, mortal but bewinged, as a reminder of whom they once were._

 

Lewis Nixon awoke with a jolt. He sat up, pausing in the still air, right hand already reaching for the gun in his bedside table. Waking up for no reason in the middle of the night meant trouble more likely than it didn't. He hesitated. A shot rang out, not far away, and Nixon made up his mind. He scrambled into pants and threw on a jacket, pausing by the door to take the rifle off of the door frame.

As he stepped outside, Nixon realized he had no need for a jacket, as the night air was hot and still, typical for a Pennsylvanian summer. Nixon rolled up his sleeves as he descended from his front porch.

Nixon was a little confused. Poachers were always a problem (that's why Nixon was legally there, after all) but it was off-season for pretty much everything, and night poachers were uncommon, so close. Though slightly confused, Nixon continued walking, stepping onto the damp grass of the field that qualified as his front lawn.

He double checked the rifle, making sure he had a couple of salt and iron rounds in the chamber. He never knew who or what was prowling around his property, but it was always good to be prepared, no matter the situation.

Nixon scanned the tree line, which was a dark smudge looming against the lighter shade of the grass. Moonlight lit the whole place an eerie silver. Nixon strained to hear over the constant chatter of cicadas. He paused. Nixon could just barely make out the sound of a branch snapping in the woods. He was alert instantly. Nixon strode forward, cocking the rifle and readying himself to face whatever was about to come out of the trees. Nixon brought his rifle up, closing one eye.

Suddenly, a figure burst out of the trees, heading straight for Nixon. Nixon was confused. Could that be a person? They didn't appear to be carrying any kind of gun. The figure kept glancing back towards the trees, running for their life. They didn't see Nixon. As they--no, he--got closer, Nixon could make out a heavy limp in his step. He lowered his rifle.

Another shot pierced the hot night air, as a horse and its rider burst forth from the trees, intent on the man running right towards Nixon. They were gaining on the man who was running, and fast. The rider carried a pistol, which he was aiming at the man again, when Nixon decided to be suicidal.

"Hey!" He called, waving his arms and rifle above his head. The figure, who was now less than a hundred feet away, stopped dead in his tracks. In the moonlight, Nixon could see his eyes widen in fear. Just then, a pair of giant wings unfolded from his back, silver and gray and framed by stars in the moonlight. Nixon gaped openly, taken aback.

The rider brought his horse to a screeching halt, shooting once more. Nixon hit the grass hard enough to bruise, but the shot was aimed at the man--no, angel. Nixon looked up as the angel screamed, clutching his wing. Nixon saw a flash of golden light before he saw a dark stain spreading from the corner, and he raced over to help as the horse and its rider galloped away into the darkness. Luckily, they didn’t want to stay and fight.

Nixon ran closer, just as the angel swayed in his place and toppled, face forward. "Whoa, big guy," Nixon said, hooking his arms under the angel's biceps. He was hot and sweaty, smeared with mud and blood. Nixon slung his rifle over his shoulder, beginning to drag the man back to the house as painlessly as he could manage. There wasn't much Nixon could do about jostling the angel's wing, just pray that the pain didn't make him wake up, or the blood loss didn't kill him.

The going was slow, the angel was as tall as Nixon, and he had a pair of huge wings. Getting him through the door was tricky, but with a fair amount of swearing and some pushing, the angel was through the door and into the foyer. Nixon paused, panting and sweaty, leaning against the wall with his hands planted on his knees. Nixon mentally ran over the options. Getting the angel up the stairs to Nixon's bedroom would be another whole ordeal, so the whole second floor was off-limits.

The only options downstairs were the couch and the kitchen table. Nixon pushed himself off the wall, noticing the pool of blood that was forming around the angel's wing. Nixon began dragging him anew, avoiding getting blood on his books or the furniture. He dragged the angel to the couch, where he positioned him into place as best he could.  
Nixon ran into the kitchen, grabbing the first aid kit from the pantry. He hurried back into the living room, switching on the light and wiping his hands on his pants. Nixon wasn't a doctor by any means, and even though it made him a bit sick to his stomach, he began assessing the wounds.

First and foremost, there was the wing wound, that had happened right before Nixon's eyes. He grabbed the largest bandage, placing it on top of the wound and pressing, hoping to staunch the bleeding a little. After the bleeding had slowed enough for Nixon to notice it, he took the bandage off and looked at the wound, trying to see if the bullet was still in. Either luckily or unluckily, the bullet had gone all the way through, leaving a messy hole. Nixon got a new bandage and a roll of gauze, placing the bandage on tightly and wrapping gauze around the width of the wing to keep it in place. Nixon hoped he wouldn't be causing additional pain by cinching the bandaging in between the larger feathers, until it touched flesh.

Nixon leaned back, exhaling slowly. He had noticed the angel limping heavily, favoring his right leg. The angel was wearing what looked like beat up cargo pants, and there was a bloody tear by the angel's calf. Nixon dragged an armchair over, picking up the angel's leg and setting his leg across Nixon's lap. Nixon ripped the hole in the fabric larger, so that he could truly evaluate the damage. A messy cut, caused (most likely) from a bullet just barely burrowing in and scraping the rest of the way through, cut across the angel's outer calf. Nixon got out the needle and thread, before he realized that his hands were shaking. He rose quickly, carefully setting the angel's leg back down. He crossed the room to the liquor table, pouring himself a finger of the Vat 69 and downing it quickly. It burned, like always, but the familiar comfort came with it.

He went back to his work, carefully stitching the wound closed. Nixon realized that he was probably doing a terrible job, butchering it rather than fixing it up. Nixon was no surgeon and he knew it. After he finished stitching it closed, Nixon bandaged the wound tightly and put the angel's leg back down. He quickly searched the angel and made sure that his breathing was even. He wasn't wearing much, only a short-sleeved shirt, the cargo pants, and a pair of combat boots. He carried nothing. No cell phone or wallet or weapon. It was odd.

Nixon leaned back, feeling a wave of exhaustion take him over. His adrenaline was dying down, leaving Nixon drained and tired. He got up and found an old woolen blanket. Even though it was hot, he draped it over the angel's lap, before collapsing back into the armchair. The angel's sleeping face, oddly serene, was the last thing Nixon saw before he drifted off into a deep sleep.

  
  
The angel woke up the next morning, scrambling with eyes wide, struggling to breathe. Nixon panicked, trying to help but not sure what to do. The angel reached out to him, gripping Nixon's arms with a strength hard enough to bruise. His eyes, pupils blown wide and impossibly blue, bored straight into Nixon's with unbelievable intensity. After a beat, he relaxed, and his eyes rolled back into his head.

Nixon's stomach just about fell out of his ass, he was so startled and scared that the angel had died. But no, he was only sleeping, and even though he slept peacefully, Nixon still didn't leave his side for another couple of hours, just to make sure he kept breathing.

Nixon got up and ate some leftovers, as he realized he hadn't eaten for a good fourteen hours. He changed into actual clothes when he realized he was still in the bloody clothes he had passed out in the night before.

Blood. Right. Wandering back to the entryway, Nixon realized that the angel had bled all over his floors the night before. Nixon set about cleaning up the mess, and even put his boots back on the shoe rack.

He then checked and changed both of the bandages. The wing wound had ceased bleeding, and the leg wound was healing nicely too. Nixon was surprised that the wounds were healing so quickly; he was worried that they would get infected.

Nixon remembered that he had promised to dig up info on chimeras for one Joe Liebgott, but he didn't want to be the 25 feet away from the angel in the office, so Nixon dragged his laptop to the armchair, as well as a stack of books to page through.

After Nixon had sent off an informative email, he looked at the angel and realized that the guy was filthy. He had mud and blood smeared all over his arms and face. His clothes were torn in places and grimy. Nixon rose from his chair and returned moments later with a wet washcloth. He then went about gently cleaning up the man.

The angel's skin was warm to the touch, but not warm enough to be alarming. Nixon wiped his face down, and then continued on his arms and neck. Nixon's efforts revealed tanned lengths of skin, broken by the occasional cut or bruise.

Nixon went as far as to clean the crusted dirt out of his hair. As the dirt washed away, Nixon realized that the angel's hair was actually red, soft red, not the brown he thought it was.

When he was done and the angel was clean, Nixon realized he was voracious. He made himself a steak sandwich and took it back to the armchair. At a loss of what to do, Nixon browsed the Internet for information until the wee hours of the morning, when his eyes began to drift closed. He set the laptop aside and burrowed down into the armchair, letting sleep take over his form once again.

  
  
When Nixon awoke, it was to a blanket thrown into his face. Nixon, disoriented and still practically asleep, clawed the blanket away in time to see the angel trying his best to scramble off of the couch. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, watch yourself," Nixon said, rising from his armchair with palms out in a symbol of peace.

"Who are you? Where am I?" The angel asked quickly, eyes darting around the house, before he winced and looked to his wing. He regarded the wound with curiosity, as if he couldn't remember how he had gotten it.

"My name is Lewis Nixon, and you're at my house. We're pretty much off the map in Pennsylvania." He stretched, feeling his neck complain at the movement. Nixon made a mental note not to sleep in any arm chairs any time soon.

"How long have I been out?" The angel asked. Nixon moved over to the kitchen, where he washed his hands as he answered.

"You've been out for about two days, I guess. You woke up yesterday for a minute, but then you passed out again." Nixon splashed water on his face. The angel hummed in thought. "Now, who are you?" Nixon asked, drying his hands and face on a towel.

"I'm Dick." He said, simply.

"Well, Dick, nice to meet you," Nixon said, pulling up a footrest and sitting in front of Dick. "Now, I want to know some things, will you tell the truth?" Nixon had no reason to believe that Dick would lie, but he had to be sure. Nixon had a pretty good idea of when people were lying, and Dick seemed to be the honest type.

Dick nodded, as if the thought of lying never crossed his mind.

"Good," Nixon said. "Now, who was that guy chasing you, and why does he want you dead so badly?"

Dick sighed, running a hand through his hair. "His name is Arden. At least, that's what he calls himself. And he wants me dead because he wants all angels dead." Dick looked straight at Nixon, and Nixon felt a chill crawl up his spine.

"Why does he want that?" Nixon asked, confused and a little perplexed. Angels were a vast minority in the general population, and there was the occasional hate crime that got coverage, but Nixon hadn't thought that those sorts of people existed.

Dick shrugged. "He believes that angels are inferior to humans, or something along those lines."

Nixon shook his head, disgusted and without words.

"He killed my family." Dick said, quickly and forcibly, without much emotion. Nixon felt rage, hot and living, boil up inside his chest. As he looked at Dick, he was completely disgusted at the sheer audacity of the situation.

"He should burn in Hell." Nixon said, with a bit too much emotion, before he forced himself to rein his anger in. Dick looked relieved that Nixon was a decent human being after all.

Dick's attention then turned to his wing. "Oh, by the way, is that bandage okay?" Nixon asked, concerned that he had further injured Dick by his poor to nonexistent first aid skills.

Dick nodded, picking at the bandage. "Yeah, it's fine. I would heal it right now, but my Grace is too low."

"Your Grace?" Nixon asked, a little confused.

"You saw when I was shot?" Nixon nodded. "Was there a flash of golden light?" When Nixon tried to remember the events two nights prior, he realized that there was a flash when the bullet hit flesh. Nixon nodded again. "Well, that was the light of my Grace. It's like a human soul, but different. With it, I can heal myself and others."

"Huh," said Nixon. He was fascinated with the angel, and rightfully so. Other than being an angel, for Christ's sake, he was incredibly attractive. Also, he was being hunted by a lunatic, and that fact could make anyone more interesting.

Dick then seemed to realize that his arms were clean. He stared at his hands, confused. "Did you clean me off?" He asked.

Nixon nodded, feeling a little embarrassed for no real reason. "You'll still have to take a shower, but your arms and face and hair are cleaner." 

"Thank you," Dick said with sincerity.

"Yeah," Nixon said, scratching the back of his neck. There was a pause. When Nixon looked up, Dick was nodding off again. "Hey, big guy, you want to move somewhere a little comfier before you pass out?" He got up to help Dick as Dick nodded sleepily. "You think you can make it up the stairs?" Dick nodded and started to get up, before his legs wobbled and he sat back down.

Nixon stood next to him and helped pull him up, putting the arm on Dick's good side around his neck. They were able to walk slowly and painfully to the staircase, where they realized that it would be too painful for the angel to tuck his wing in. Therefore, they walked sideways, and carefully pivoted into the bedroom. Nixon left Dick's side for a moment, clearing loose clothes off of the bed, before he helped Dick lay down. Dick flipped over so that he was lying on his stomach, with his wings spilling off the bed on either side.

"If you need me, just holler," Nixon said as Dick's eyes drifted closed and his body relaxed. Nixon felt a tiny smile cross his face, just for a moment. Then, he went back downstairs and tried to do some research for his network of hunters.

  
  
Dick stumbled down the stairs around dusk, causing Nixon to spring from his chair and help him to the floor. "You got any food?" Dick asked, somewhat hoarsely.  
Nixon nodded, guiding Dick to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and peered inside at its contents. "Let's see, I have some chicken, some rice, I could make you a sandwich," he offered.

Dick smiled a little. "A sandwich sounds nice," he said. As Nixon busied himself around the kitchen, Dick asked, "Now, you asked me some questions, can I ask you some?"

"Ask away," Nixon conceded. He had very little to hide, after all. Well, aside from the whole ‘I research monsters’ thing.

"Ok, what are you doing here? I thought this was state game grounds. That's why Arden cornered me here."

"Well, legally, I'm here to report to the state if there are illegal, off-season hunters here." Nixon said, spreading mayonnaise on two pieces of bread. "You want mustard?" He asked.

"Sure," Dick said. "Do you do any other kind of work on the side? It doesn't seem like this would pay well."

"When my dad died when I was 20, I inherited a massive fortune. So, I put a significant amount of it in savings, and bought this place. It doesn't pay well, but then I have no real need to be paid." Nixon couldn't help feeling pretentious as he was saying it. "So, I decided to help out instead, and live out here." Nixon didn’t tell Dick that this was the perfect place to help out his network of hunters, away from the action.

Dick was silent as Nixon finished his sandwich. Nixon cut it in half and set it in front of Dick, before he poured himself a small glass of the Vat 69. He sat opposite Dick, and sipped at his drink while Dick practically devoured the sandwich. He came up for air a couple of minutes later, remarking, "You seem awfully young to live all by yourself, in the middle of nowhere."

Nixon shrugged. "It's not that bad, and I'm almost twenty five. I like my solitude, and I have a group of buddies that visit sometimes. They all come here for Thanksgiving and Christmas." Nixon smiled a little as he thought about the last Christmas, when Bill Guarnere and Joe Toye both got a little bit too drunk and ended up in an arm-wrestling competition that quickly dissolved into giggles. Nixon had ended up drunk on egg nog, passed out under the massive pine he had dragged into his living room. Muck and Malarkey tried to go caroling but had only ended up cold on the front porch.

Dick hummed, finishing his sandwich. "I turned twenty five last January," he said quietly, almost to himself. "Thank you for that," he said, getting up to take his plate to the sink. Nixon saw him wince when he put weight on his hurt leg, and he hurried around to take the plate from him. "No, no, no, I don't want to trouble you. You've done so much for me already."

"Nonsense," Nixon said, placing the plate in the sink. "You can stay here as long as you want."

Dick smiled a little, and Nixon couldn't help smiling back. Truth be told, Nixon realized that he had gotten a little lonely, living alone and not seeing other humans for weeks on end. He was contented with his research, however, and he liked his time alone. Talking to and seeing the guys every once in awhile was good enough, but even so, it was nice and refreshing to have another person in the house.

Nixon brought out his first aid kit and replaced Dick's bandages, checking to make sure neither of his wounds were getting infected. They were healing nicely, and Nixon was pleased with how they looked.

Nixon turned his attention to Dick's wing wound. His feathers were the same shade as his hair, except around the wound they were stained red. Nixon couldn't help running a hand over Dick's feathers, under the pretense of checking the wound. Dick shivered a little under Nixon's hand.

"Sorry," Nixon murmured, moving on.

"It's okay," Dick said. Nixon glanced up at Dick's face and found his light blue eyes staring straight at him. Nixon swallowed and put the first aid kit away, rising from the table. He retired to his office, while Dick perused Nixon's extensive library. Nixon hoped that Dick didn't catch on to the fact that 80% of his books were mythology books, focusing on the monsters that Nixon helped his hunters hunt.

  
  
That night, thanks to Nixon's insistence, Dick slept upstairs on the real bed, while Nixon slept on the couch. It was a small price to pay if it helped Dick get better. Around two am, he was woken by a hand pressed over his mouth and another hand on his shoulder. He fought for a moment, before he realized that the hands belonged to Dick, who was kneeling next to him, wings spilled all around him. "Arden is here." Dick whispered close to Nixon's ear.

Nixon sat up instantly, and Dick took one of his hands off of Nixon's mouth. He kept his other hand on Nixon's arm, as a reassurance. Nixon slowly got up, reaching out and slipping his hand into Dick's without thinking twice about it. Together, they crept quietly to the door, where Nixon peered out of the peephole into the misty evening. And sure enough, standing right in the middle of Nixon's driveway, was Arden.

Nixon hadn't gotten a good look at the man on the night he had shot Dick, but Nixon could clearly see him now. He had short, well-groomed graying hair, a sturdy build, and a face carved of marble. His eyes were steely and light, roaming around Nixon's house. He was probably around six feet tall, and he stood beside his massive horse. The horse was pure black, and stood stock-still as its rider took in the house before him.

Nixon held his breath, slipping back to stand beside Dick, their hands still linked. "We'll just wait him out." Nixon said, reaching slowly for the rifle above the door. Dick nodded, lacing their fingers together. Nixon held the gun in his off-hand, lightly and carefully. The peephole was between their heads, and Dick's wing was able to tuck against his back so that it avoided the peephole as well. His injured wing spread out on the other side, away from Nixon.

They seemed to wait for an eternity, monitoring their breathing and staying very still. Nixon held his breath when he heard a step on the stairs. The wood creaked as Arden took another step, and another, and another. Nixon saw Dick steel himself out of the corner of his eye. Arden walked up the porch, quietly and carefully, before he paused in front of the door. They heard a shuffle as Arden peered inside, and Nixon gripped Dick's hand tightly, hardly daring to breathe.

After a moment, Arden receded, and quietly walked back down to his horse. Nixon turned enough to see him lead the horse away, before mounting a few paces later. They rode off slowly, as not to make noise. As soon as they were out of sight, Nixon let out a sigh of relief, sagging back against the wall. Dick breathed out as well, a nervous, relieved laugh escaping his mouth. Nixon turned, surprised. He liked how it sounded when Dick laughed. He smiled a little, rubbing his thumb against the back of Dick's hand, and all he could do was laugh along and try to ignore the fluttery feeling in his chest.

   
  
Nixon ended up sleeping on the couch after that, and Dick reclaimed the bed. Nixon woke earlier than normal, most likely because of the pain in his spine. He groaned as he got up, stretching a little before hobbling over to the liquor cart and pouring himself a finger of the Vat 69.

"Morning, Nix." Dick said from the kitchen. Nixon turned, surprised. He hadn't expected Dick to be up so soon.

"What time is it?" He croaked, setting the empty glass back down. The whiskey helped, but he still felt like crap warmed over.

Dick glanced at the clock. "8 o'clock." He said, endearingly energetic for it being so early.

Nixon harrumphed, making his way to the kitchen, where he sat down at the table. He put his crossed arms on the table, and rested his chin on top, watching Dick putter around the kitchen, trying to make breakfast. "You don't have to do that," he said, rising to take over the cooking.

"No, I'd like to." Dick said, waving his hand at Nixon to sit back down. Nixon sat again, feeling sleep still clinging desperately to his limbs. As Nixon watched Dick work, he realized that Dick had been wearing the same clothes since he had gotten to Nixon's house, perhaps since even before.

Nixon slipped upstairs, where he found his bed neatly made. He crossed to the dresser and changed quickly, picking up his dirty laundry. Then, Nixon picked out clean clothes that looked like they would fit Dick. He found an old gray Henley and a pair of jeans that were clean. He got an unopened set of socks out of the closet, and an unopened set of boxers. Taking the set of clothes back downstairs, he set them on the table and sat back down.

Dick was busy scrambling eggs at the stove, but he glanced behind him as Nixon sat back down. His hurt wing was partially tucked behind him, but the ends of his feathers dragged on the ground anyway. Nixon watched Dick as he cooked. Nixon could see the muscle moving underneath his t-shirt, and could see two small strips of skin where Dick had slashed the back open to allow his wings to stick through. Dick was highly fit, and though he still limped a little when he walked, he was very healthy.

Nixon couldn't help admiring Dick's body as the angel cooked. Suddenly, a plate of scrambled eggs was placed in front of him with a small smile from Dick. Next, a glass of orange juice was set in front of him. Nixon grinned as he poured a healthy amount of alcohol from his hip flask into the drink. He raised an eyebrow at Dick, extending his arm across the table as Dick sat down.

Dick shook his head. "I don't drink." Nixon chuckled, pocketing the flask. It was then that Dick noticed the clothes at the end of the table.

"Those are for you," said Nixon, noticing Dick's look.

Dick shook his head and swallowed a bite of eggs. "No, I can't do that." At Nixon's confused look, he added, "Take from you."

Nixon couldn't help rolling his eyes a little. "It's a gift, Dick. I haven't worn the clothes in a long time, and the underwear is brand new." Dick still looked a little uneasy, so Nixon added, "If it makes you feel better, you can do some chores for me. I have a garden out back that I'm slowly killing with my inability to care for anything living."

Dick grinned, before he added, "I don't know, you've done a great job with me." Something in his tone of voice made Nixon blush a little, before hiding his grin in his heavily alcoholic glass of orange juice.

  
Dick ended up doing the dishes and cleaning up breakfast, and only after that did he decide to clean up. He asked if Nixon had a bath (he did, in the upstairs bathroom) and if so, if he could use it.

Dick took a bath in the upstairs bathroom while Nixon busied himself with his office, trying to arrange his papers into some sort of order. Dick's cleaning of the house had inspired Nixon to try and clean up his living area more than he would have.

After a half an hour, Dick exited the bathroom, clean and dry and--shirtless? He was wearing the pants and the socks that Nixon had given him, but he was holding the Henley in his hands, somewhat uncertainly. His hair and the feathers of his wings closest to his back were still damp, and dark with moisture.

"Do you have a pair of scissors I could borrow?" Dick asked, unusually demure. Nixon nodded, trying to look at Dick's face, and not at the broad expanse of tan skin that was now privy to his eyes. Dick looked embarrassed, almost hiding behind the shirt in his hands.

Nixon dug around in his desk drawer, picking up crosses and stakes in order to get deeper. He finally found some and handed them to Dick. Dick thanked him and moved to the coffee table, where he set the shirt on the table and began to cut two long slits in the back. Nixon tried not to stare, willing a stupid blush not to rise to his cheeks. He turned back to his desk, busying himself in papers and books.

Dick managed to get his shirt on, and sat down on the couch. Nixon turned around in time to see his eyes drift closed and his head loll to the side.  
Nixon shook his head, feeling a smile tug onto his face. The guy was still recovering, after all. Nixon spread a blanket over him, and set a pillow behind his head, before he retreated to his desk with that odd, fluttery feeling in his chest again.


	2. July (kinda)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nixon gets a call from Bill Guarnere. Dick wants to go for a walk.

Nixon got a phone call from Bill Guarnere that afternoon. Dick was still asleep, and, not wanting to wake him, Nixon slipped outside and sat on the steps of his porch.

"Hi, Bill," he answered on the second ring.

"Nixon, ol' buddy, how are things?" Guarnere asked in his South Philly accent.

Nixon smiled a little. "Things are good here. It's hot and humid, but that's a Pennsylvania summer for you." Nixon could feel the heat radiating off of the wood beneath him.

"Right, right," Guarnere said, sounding distracted. "Listen, I called for advice, not around hunting, but about something else." Nixon stayed quiet, listening. "You see, I exorcised a demon a town back, this mother. You see, her kid is only two years younger than me, he saw the whole thing. Now, he wants to travel with me, see the hunter's world. He seems like tougher stock, a real salty type with a heart of gold, but I don't wanna see this kid killed." Guarnere's voice was soft at the end.

Nixon understood his problem, at least a little. "Well," he began, "put yourself in his shoes. If you were him, where would you want to be?"

Guarnere was silent, thinking. "I'd wanna be next to my buddy, killing monsters and living the high life." He said.

Nixon smiled. All he had to do was make Bill think about it, and the answer came out. "Does this kid have fight in him?" Nixon asked.

"Oh yeah. He's small and pasty, but he'll fight anyone o' the scallywags that look at him wrong."

Nixon chuckled. "It sounds like you two will get along great. And what is his name?"

"His name? Well, everyone calls him Babe, but his real name is something else. Something that starts with an 'E', he has his initials on some of his stuff. Last name's Heffron."

Nixon hummed, nodding. He didn't want to tell Guarnere that he was thinking about taking someone along as well, at least, not yet. Guarnere thanked Nixon for his advice, and the two said goodbye and each hung up on their respective ends. Nixon headed back into the house and quietly resumed his work.

Dick woke up around sunset and made dinner for the two of them, which they ate in contented silence. Afterwards, Dick insisted on doing the dishes, and Nixon insisted on helping him. Dick stood, elbow-deep in soapy water, washing dishes, while Nixon dried next to him. It was an oddly satisfying task.

They went their separate ways later that night, as Dick was much less nocturnal than Nixon. Nixon retired to the couch again, damning himself to a night of back pain, and let Dick take his bed. Oddly enough, he was okay with it.

  
  
"I want to go for a walk." Dick said over breakfast the next morning.

"Okay," Nixon shrugged, not really seeing where Dick was going.

"The thing is, my leg is still giving me problems, and who knows where Arden is. Basically, will you come with me?"

"I'm not one for physical activity, but sure." Nixon said, sipping at his coffee. Dick had made it, and the brew was nice and strong, enough to make Nixon feel like the morning might be worth a damn. He still didn't like getting up early, but the coffee, breakfast, and company sure made it almost worth it.

They cleaned up breakfast and headed out. The morning was already muggy, and Nixon was already begrudging agreeing to going on a walk. He stepped out on to the porch and inhaled, feeling like he was taking in a lot of moisture compared to oxygen.

Dick limped out and passed Nixon, bumping him gently with his wing. He used the rail to get down the stairs, but the second his feet hit grass, he winced and inhaled quickly. Nixon hurried to his side, feeling slightly guilty. Without thinking about it, he slipped his arm through Dick's, linking their elbows. Dick sent him a small, reassured smile, and they went on their way.

Nixon's house was surrounded by thick woods, but game trails cut it here and there. Of course, there was a field that the house looked out over, and that's where Nixon and Dick walked first. The air was warm, though not unpleasant, and Nixon found himself relaxing as he walked slowly beside Dick. Nixon admitted that he didn't get out of the house enough, as he and nature weren't the best of friends. But this pleasant stroll through the forest? This was nice.

They didn't talk much, as neither really had anything of importance to say. Nixon felt comfortable being quiet around Dick, in fact, he felt comfortable around Dick pretty much all the time. Dick, as well, seemed to be comfortable and relaxed around Nixon. As they walked, Dick slung his good wing around Nixon's shoulders, leaning less on his arm, though he still kept them linked. Nixon smiled a small, satisfied smile, and used his free hand to play with the feathers around his shoulder.

When the field ran out, Nixon guided Dick to one of the wider trails. "C'mon, I want to show you something," Nixon said, "it's not far." Dick raised an eyebrow and followed close behind.

The trail wound this way and that, and sometimes the pair would have to duck under a low-hanging branch or step over a fallen log. Nixon set a slow pace, so that it was easy for Dick to keep up. After walking for about ten minutes, the trees opened up to a small clearing, and Nixon grinned to Dick as he stepped aside to show Dick the view.

"It's beautiful, Lew." Dick said, gazing out in front of him. Nixon was left to wonder why he liked the way Dick said the shortened version of his name so much. Other people (namely, his mother) had called Nixon Lew before, Dick wasn't the first by any means. And yet, Nixon felt like a warm balloon was filling up in his chest, such was the effect of Dick using his nickname.

Before them rested the pond. Barely twenty yards across, it was deep near the middle. Grassy banks were bathed in shade. Trees ridged the edge, lowering their branches over the green water. A large rock jutted out into and over the water, providing a perfect place to jump off and into the cool water.

"I bet the water is pleasant this time of year," Nixon chimed in, eyes on Dick's rapt face.

Dick nodded, hand resting on Nixon's forearm. His wing was still resting on Nixon's shoulder, and Nixon liked the soft pressure of feathers there.

Dick suddenly winced, and turned back to Nixon. "Do you mind if we head back, my leg is acting up."

"Of course not." Nixon said, already turning back towards the house. Dick sent him a small, reassured look, and the two made their way back. When they were crossing the field, Dick's arm still through Nixon's, he turned and said, "Maybe when my leg feels better, we can head back there before summer is over."

Nixon somehow knew that they would end up there, no matter if Dick wanted to or not.

  
  
The summer began to pass more readily for Nixon. The days started to blend together in an increasingly hot dance of work and making sure Dick was feeling better and not getting too suspicious about what line of work Nixon was in.

Nixon dreaded the day he would have to reveal to Dick that monsters did, in fact, exist, and that they were much closer to some than people wanted to believe. Nixon was happy with the quiet life he had eked out for himself. Research, away from the front lines of battle, was his specialty. Nixon had plenty of other guys willing to go out and fight the monsters that he so researched.

Nixon felt a sense of protective fondness forming between himself and Dick. They talked and discussed everything under the sun, as Dick was highly intellectual, and a great discussion partner. His wounds healed quickly. The two went for walks sometimes, and with each time, Dick leaned less and less on Nixon's arm, his limp waning and then disappearing altogether. Nixon liked that he was healing, but found himself missing the contact between them.

One day, Nixon went into town and bought new clothes for Dick, and a new pair of boots. He bought a pair of swim trunks, and a couple of pillows to make the couch comfier.

The two still hadn't discussed exactly how long Dick would be staying with Nixon. Buying clothes and toothpaste and a new razor for the guy felt like something permanent. Dick protested weakly, said he was taking too much, that he didn't deserve it, but Nixon forced him too, and Dick sent Nixon a silently grateful look.

The threat that Arden posed still loomed over both of them, but the immediate danger seemed to have passed. Arden was simply a reminder of how grim and stark the world could be, outside of Nixon's private paradise.

Dick took to the garden quickly, restoring the failing plants that Nixon had put into the ground earlier. Though he laughed at himself doing it, Nixon found himself bringing Dick water, feeling his heart squeeze as Dick smiled up at him, framed by sunlight and green grass and wildflowers. Nixon, all of the sudden, wanted to lean down and kiss Dick in the sunny garden, run his hands through Dick's short, red hair.

Instead, he smiled back and settled down in the shade to nap, with a finger or two of the Vat 69.

Dick had been with Nixon for almost three weeks, and Nixon had to admit, they were some of the best three weeks of his life. Nixon hoped, he prayed like he had never prayed before, that this newfound companion, that this new, tangible source of happiness, would somehow be able to stay. He hoped that Dick was enjoying his stay as much as Nixon enjoyed having him there.


	3. Wet Hot American Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 boys 1 pond (sezzual tension and bonding)

One day in July, Nixon decided that Hell must have risen from the fiery depths, because no human-inhabited place could be so hot. The air was thick with typical Pennsylvania humidity; walking outside almost felt like stepping into a warm shower. Almost. 

Nixon sat at his desk, papers strewn all about, trying to dig up some stuff on a wendigo for Muck, Malarkey, and Penkala. Instead of working, Nixon rested his head on the edge of his desk, praying for the sweet relief of death. The air conditioning was out again, and the house felt like an oven. Nixon's clothes felt soaked through, his hair matted to his forehead. He groaned softly and picked his head off of the table, wondering if exposing more akin to the air was a good idea. 

Dick walked, no, melted down the stairs, wings drooped, as if it was too much work to keep them tucked back. He was sweaty too, but it looked sexy on him. On Nixon, it only looked gross. They did share one thing in common regarding the heat: they both absolutely hated it. 

"Let's go to the pond." Dick said, leaning on the railing of the stairs. 

Nixon jumped at the idea, but he moved much slower in real life. "That, my friend," he unstuck his legs from his chair as he stood, "is a wonderful idea." 

It was still early in the morning, so Dick packed a lunch for them. Nixon added a bottle of the Vat 69 to the basket. They brought a blanket and some towels. Nixon changed into his swimsuit, but he brought a change of clothes, in case he wanted to cover up. 

They set off for the pond, Dick applying sunscreen as they walked. Nixon slipped on a pair of sunglasses, already feeling sticky in the heat. Dick shed his t-shirt as he walked, and Nixon was glad he was leading the way, as it gave Nixon a great view of Dick's bare back. 

They reached the water soon enough, and Nixon, for someone who hated swimming, couldn't get into the water fast enough. He splashed about, feeling relieved at the cool water surrounding him. He came up for air and shook water out of his eyes, floating on his back. Nixon opened his eyes a crack, large enough to see the great winged shadow of Dick, standing on the rock. 

In one motion, he raised his hands over his head and dove in, splashing Nixon on the way down. He surfaced a moment later, laughing. Nixon playfully splashed him back, and thus a water war began. 

It didn't last long, as Dick was the far more active of the two, and he was able to pin Nixon in the shallows. They lay there, panting, Dick still pinning Nixon, and Nixon realized that his bare chest was pressed to Dick's bare chest, and that was suddenly a lot for his brain to handle. Their laughs faded, and a tender look entered Dick's eyes for a moment. He leaned forward imperceptibly, his hand around Nixon's wrist instead pressed against Nixon's palm. Nixon's breath caught in his chest as Dick laced their fingers together, sand and water getting in between their fingers. Dick looked Nixon in the eye and Nixon felt something stir deep in his chest, rising until it threatened to take over his body. Dick's head lowered, very slowly. Nixon felt as if he couldn't breathe. 

Suddenly, a loud snap from the bushes startled them both, sent a full body jerk through Dick, which, because they were pressed together, Nixon could feel very clearly. Dick sat up, pulling Nixon up with him. His eyes were on the trees. A shape separated itself from the shadows: a deer. It noticed the two men and bounded away, leaving Nixon and Dick in its wake. Nixon chuckled, which startled Dick. He waved Dick off with a "Nevermind," when Dick raised an eyebrow. 

Nixon dried off after that, setting up their picnic blanket and food basket while Dick swam in lazy circles in the green water. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo,” Dick said casually from the water. Nixon suddenly remembered the pentagram surrounded by flame that was permanently etched in between the tops of his shoulder blades. It was an anti-possession tattoo, of course, but Dick didn’t have to know that. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to learn too much about the hunter world at all. 

As Nixon sat down, he replied, “Yeah?” He got out his bottle of the Vat, not so much because he was craving a drink, but because it was there and available. 

From the shallows, Dick shrugged. “You don’t seem the type, I guess.” 

“And what type am I, then?” Nixon asked out of curiosity. 

“One of those boys who only wears polos and khakis and has a chauffeur named Daniel.” Dick grinned, and Nixon smiled, knowing he was joking. His thoughts turned to the arsenal of heavy woolen sweaters and jeans back at his house. 

Nixon quickly changed into shorts and a t-shirt, slipping his sunglasses back on. He lounged in the shade, watching Dick swim. Dick was in no rush to get out; he kept climbing onto the rock and elegantly diving into the water with barely a splash. His wings tucked into his back nicely, better than Nixon would have expected. 

Nixon, meanwhile, had a perfect view of Dick's lean, muscled body. The swim shorts Dick had requested Nixon to buy must have been European; they were very short and all in all there wasn't much fabric. 

Nixon forced himself to look away from that area, especially the trail of hair down Dick's naval, that started off pale and red, and got darker before it disappeared into his shorts. Yes, it was best to avoid thinking about that. 

After a while, Dick came out of the water, dripping wet and practically glistening in the sun. "Towel, towel," he said, reaching out to Nixon. Nixon tossed him his towel, and Dick sat beside Nixon on the picnic blanket, drying off. He ruffled his wing feathers, patting them off, before he rubbed his torso and limbs down. Nixon promptly busied himself with digging their food out of the basket, thankful to the sunglasses for concealing his gaze, for the most part.

Dick had prepared a feast for the two of them. Sandwiches, fruit salad, lemonade, potato salad, it was all there. "Jesus, Dick, it's only the two of us," Nixon said, taking out the sandwiches and handing one to Dick. 

"I know," said Dick. "I like to cook, and we can eat it later if we don't eat it today." He unwrapped his sandwich and took a bite, looking out over the water. 

Nixon was suddenly struck with just how easily this man had slid painlessly into his life, how easy it was between them. Then Nixon remembered that Dick still didn't know what Nixon really did, and the mood faded. Nixon wasn't looking forward to that conversation. 

They ate and drank in companionable silence, Nixon with his liquor, Dick with his lemonade. The sun was hot, and the food was delicious. Nixon felt content and sleepy, with the heat an oppressive figure above them. When he finished his sandwich and ate some potato salad, he stretched out. 

Perhaps it was because Nixon was a little drunk, he stretched out unabashedly into Dick's lap, surprising the angel. Dick let him however, before he leaned back on his arms. Nixon adjusted so that his head rested on Dick's stomach. "Summertime, and the livin’ is easy," he said, tucking the bottle of liquor under his thigh. 

"Your dad is rich and your mom is good looking," Dick continued, crumpling up his napkin and tossing it into their picnic basket. 

"My dad was rich, but my mom, well," Nixon sighed, "she was good looking twenty years and three facelifts ago." 

Dick hummed, and Nixon could feel the vibration in his head. "What about your folks, Dick? You got any siblings?" 

"I did." Dick said carefully. "And my parents were very caring. Farmers. They were saving up to send me to a university." Dick paused. "Then Arden came and killed them. Killed my siblings, too. I was able to run, but I first had to see my childhood house burning behind me." 

Nixon felt suddenly very aware of the privilege that was gifted to him at a very young age. He reached back and found Dick's exposed hip, tracing light circles there in an attempt to comfort. "I'm sorry, Dick." He said quietly. "Arden will pay. If he ever comes back around here, he will get what he deserves." 

"Yeah," Dick agreed quietly, crossing his legs at the ankle. Nixon let his eyes slip closed, enjoying the company and the sleepy feeling that came with it. "You comfy there, Lew?" Dick asked, almost teasingly. 

"Very." Nixon said. "But if this isn't okay, just say so." He had realized that Dick might have been uncomfortable with Nixon's head in his lap. 

"No, you're good there." Dick said. There was a ruffling sound, before Dick laid down as well. Nixon could feel the tips of his feathers on his bare arm. Suddenly, Dick's warm hand carded through Nixon's hair, sending a pleasant chill down Nixon's spine. He had to physically control himself from making an embarrassing noise. 

"That feel good?" Dick laughed, running his hand through Nixon's dark hair. Nixon nodded, not trusting himself to open his mouth. Dick settled back, with his hand still carding through Nixon's hair. And, because the heat and the food and the head-rubbing was almost too much to handle, Nixon fell asleep in Dick's lap.    


  
When Nixon awoke, the first thing he realized was that it was much darker than when he had gone to sleep. The second was that it was cold. And wet. Nixon felt cold droplets of water on his face and he sat up, confused. Sounds of rain surrounded them. Dick was still asleep, but Nixon shook him, and he sat up, rubbing his face. 

"What the..." He trailed off, looking around. The rain suddenly picked up a notch, sending a splash down on the pair, who were still under the tree. 

"We need to get back," Nixon said, throwing all of their stuff into the picnic basket. Dick grabbed the picnic blanket and rolled it up, holding it und er his arm. Nixon tried to cover his head at first, when Dick waved him over. As they practically ran home, Nixon ducked under Dick's wing.

As they crossed the field, the rain intensified, and a startled laugh flowed from Dick's mouth. Nixon couldn't help but grab Dick's free hand and laugh along, as they jogged up the steps to the house. Somehow, they made it through the door side by side, and stood together, panting. And all Nixon could do was laugh, laugh until his sides hurt and he felt light in the head. He leaned back against the wall, face hurting from the sheer prominence of his smile. It was a wonderful feeling. Nixon didn't ever want to forget it. 

  
  
The rain continued for another hour or so, as Nixon dried off and Dick showered upstairs. It was a pleasant white noise, surrounding their house in the middle of nowhere. It made Nixon feel alone and secure at the same time, like he and Dick and his old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere was the only thing that existed, the only thing that needed to exist. Nixon watched the rain stream down the window in his bedroom for a good hour, listening to the rain and the water hitting the tile, where Dick was showering. 

  
  
The next day, after breakfast, Dick took over the downstairs bathroom to shave. It turned out that the upstairs bathroom had a leak, and the two had blocked it off until they were able to fix it and clean up the mess inside. 

The problem was, Dick didn't easily fit inside of the downstairs bathroom. The house was old, and some of the rooms had odd layouts. The bathroom was one of them. It was horribly narrow, spread out over eight feet or so, but never getting any wider than two feet, when one took the bathtub, shower, cabinets, and sink into account. Nixon glanced over when he heard a muttered curse, surprised. Nixon could see that Dick's wings were getting in the way, making it so that he couldn't see his reflection in the mirror above the sink. 

Nixon pretended to dust his bookshelves, edging closer to the open door. A frustrated sigh drifted out the door, and Nixon took pity. "Here, let me," he said, edging into the bathroom. Dick met his eyes in the mirror, surprised. Nixon gestured to the counter, and Dick complied, hopping up and sitting there. His face was then level with Nixon's. He passed the razor to Nixon, and Nixon edged closer, nudging Dick's knees apart so he could step closer. 

Nixon was nervous, but he went gently, turning Dick's head with his fingertips, expertly shaving his cheeks and his jaw. As he worked, he got more confident, and leaned in farther, so that his hip pressed into Dick's inner thigh. Dick let himself be handled, turned this way and that. 

Nixon's finger slipped and Dick winced, a small spot of blood appearing on his neck. "Sorry," Nixon murmured, licking his finger and pressing it to the mark. Dick's eyes fluttered closed, and a sigh escaped his body. Nixon realized just how close they were, how their chests were touching and Dick's legs were fully spread, allowing Nixon to be as close as physically possible to him, while still keeping their clothes on. It was surprisingly intimate. 

Nixon's eyes flicked all across Dick's face, and he realized he was done shaving. He also realized how beautiful Dick was up close, eyelashes fanning his face. Nixon could pick out a couple of tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose, long lost due to the sun. 

Dick's eyes slowly opened, landing and focusing on Nixon, startlingly close. Dick didn't push him away or get up. Instead, he leaned forward imperceptibly, sliding his hand to Nixon's lower back, pushing him even impossibly closer. 

Nixon's finger rested on Dick's pulse point. He could feel the slightly fast tempo, he could see the dilation of Dick's pupils. Nixon's breath seemed to be trapped in his chest, time seemed to slow to a snail's crawl as they both leaned forward, eyes slipping closed. 

Nixon paused for a moment when Dick's nose hit his, letting out a breath. Dick waited. Nixon pressed his eyes closed and tilted his head up, his lips pressed to Dick's. The kiss was chaste and dry, both parties didn't want to push things too far, too fast. Nixon's brain was short-circuiting, it didn't know what to do. He was on top of the world, he was finally kissing Dick. And Dick was even kissing him back. 

Nixon felt Dick open his mouth a little in invitation, and Nixon pressed closer, pushing into Dick's mouth. His hand slid from Dick's neck to the fair hairs at the base of his skull, slipping in and staying there. 

A loud knock at the door startled them both. They separated, resting their foreheads together, not making eye contact. The knock sounded again, more insistent. Nixon squeezed Dick's arm apologetically, and turned his head. "One second!" He called. He kissed Dick quickly, on the tip of the nose, almost like a promise, before he pulled away with a feeling of dread. 

The knock at the door sounded again, and Nixon sped up his walk, almost jogging to open it in time. He yanked the door open without checking who was behind it, and felt his stomach fall dramatically. 

Arden stood in front of Nixon, smiling a false smile. He looked like he had tried to clean up, as his hair was combed and he was wearing a suit. "Mr. Nixon?" He asked, with a raised eyebrow. 

Nixon nodded dumbly, already trying to figure out a way he could get a jump on the guy. The pure sight of him filled Nixon with anger and fear. Arden reached into his suit jacket, and Nixon spied a shoulder holster. He was aware of the rifle above the doorway he stood in, but Nixon remembered that it was unloaded. His fear leapt up a notch as he realized that he had no way to attack the man. Instead of reaching for the rifle, he stuck his hands in his pockets. 

“My name is Detective Allen, I’m with the FBI. Do you mind if I come in?” as he talked, he flashed a badge at Nixon. Though Nixon only got a glimpse of it, it looked legitimate, but Nixon knew how easy those things were to fake. He had made himself a fake ID when he was only sixteen, after all. 

Nixon knew that it would be suspicious to turn the guy away at the door. As if he had something to hide. Instead, Nixon put on an air of nonchalance, stepping aside and shrugging. “Of course, detective.” He closed the door behind Arden, noting the way Arden’s eyes darted all over the place, getting a sense of the layout. Nixon glanced to the bathroom, which he had luckily closed the door to. “Would you like something to drink? I think the coffee’s cold, but if you want it…” Nixon trailed off as Arden shook his head. 

“I don’t have much time, sir, but I do have to ask you,” Arden reached into his pocket and unfolded a piece of paper that he drew out. “Have you seen this man?” 

Nixon’s heart pounded in his ears as he looked at the grainy picture. It was obviously a zoomed in shot from a gas station security camera, of Dick’s scared face. In the picture, he had a smear of blood down one side of his face, and he was clutching his leg as he walked. Nixon shook his head, trying to keep his face blank of any recognition. 

Arden hummed, obviously trying to mask disappointment. “You live on state game lands, Mr. Nixon.” It was clearly stated. 

Nixon nodded, “I’m here to report illegal or off-season poachers to the feds.” 

Arden’s eyes narrowed. “Have you heard anything...unusual in these parts recently?” 

Nixon knew that if he lied, Arden would know it, so he told the partial truth. “Actually, now that you mention it...a couple of weeks there were loud shots, close to my house, in the middle of the night. I got up to investigate, but there was nothing I could find.” He fought to keep his gaze on the monster of a man in front of him, and away from the bathroom that concealed Dick.

Suddenly, Arden’s phone rang. He answered it, turning away from Nixon. “What. Oh really?...I’ll be there in fifteen.” Arden turned back, pocketing his phone. “I’m sorry for interrupting your day, Mr. Nixon, my partner needs me.” With that, he excused himself, closing the door behind him. Nixon heard a car drive off. He went to the window and watched Arden’s car, most likely a rental, drive away. 

White-hot rage consumed Nixon, all of it aimed at the man driving away. Dick slipped out of the bathroom, coming over to Nixon. “I should have killed him,” Nixon said thickly, gripping the back of the couch with one hand. 

“Oh, Lew…” Dick said. “You had no way to attack him.”

“But I promised you, Dick.” Nixon said, meeting Dick’s gaze. He trembled with fury as Dick reached out, tenderly, and took Nixon’s hand. 

“You’re shaking, Lew.” Dick said, twining their fingers together. And all of the sudden, Nixon felt his anger drain away, into a fragility that startled him. He suddenly felt breakable and weak. But above everything, Nixon knew that no one was going to take Dick’s life from him. No one. With that in his mind, Nixon pulled Dick into a close hug, wrapping his arms around Dick’s neck and holding on tight. Dick’s arms circled Nixon back, pulling him close. Nixon let out a shaky breath into Dick’s shoulder, knowing full well that he would do whatever necessary to keep Dick safe. 

  
  
That night, Nixon went back to sleep on the couch, when Dick paused. "You can share the bed with me, if you want." He said, hesitating by the stairs. Nixon's heart leapt in his chest, while his mind raced ahead and all around. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and asked, 

“Is this you being selfless?” Nixon asked, forcing his voice not to betray anything. Dick shook his head. He appeared calm, but Nixon could barely see his thumb, which was busy rapidly tapping on the banister.  _ Huh, he’s nervous, _ Nixon thought to himself. 

Nixon nodded. “Sure,” A smile graced Dick’s face, and Nixon felt it stir something in his chest. Nixon collected his pillow off of the couch, glad that he would hopefully never have to sleep on the lumpy monster again. As Nixon ascended the stairs, his mind tried to tackle all the technical aspects of the new sleeping arrangement: how would the wings fit in? Would there be cuddling? Would Dick be shirtless? Would it be impolite for Nixon to be in boxers and a t-shirt, as he was then? What if one of them woke up with an erection? What would happen if one of them kicked in their sleep? What about a wet dream? 

As Nixon’s anxiety about the whole thing rose, he came to the top of the stairs. Dick was already in bed, on his stomach, with his wings folded back, giving Nixon plenty of room to himself. Nixon noticed that Dick was shirtless, but he pushed that aside and climbed into bed, positioning his pillow and trying to burrow down into the mattress without brushing against Dick. 

Though it was a large bed, there was still a couple of accidental touches, an arm here, a leg there. Nixon felt suddenly very restricted, afraid to cross the invisible line that bisected the bed. Dick was  _ there, _ less than a foot away, and Nixon felt like it would take a bottle of the Vat 69 and about a month to cross. 

Nixon ended up on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to Dick drift off next to him, his breathing becoming even and slow. Nixon felt an emotion then, stronger than he expected at all. It started slowly, but like a spring melting in the first rays of spring sunlight, it became steadier and deeper. Nixon’s eyes prickled as the sheer affection he felt for the man next to him threatened to swell out of his chest and pour out into the room before him. He turned his head to the left, taking in Dick’s sleeping face. 

It was serene and lit by moonlight, carved from marble and yet so much warmer than any statue Nixon had ever seen. His affection increased even more, which Nixon thought wasn’t possible. He sniffed, overcome, as Dick shifted in his sleep and his wings slipped out of place. They spread out, one of them covering Nixon like a protective, feathery blanket. 

Nixon laughed at himself as he wiped a tear off of his cheek. He had barely touched the Vat that night, but he was crying at the smallest things like an over-emotional drunk. It was humiliating, to say the least, but Nixon also felt so very, very alive. He felt like a raw nerve end, completely open and exposed, but loving every sensation it came across. 

Nixon turned onto his side, so that he faced Dick. He couldn’t help smiling a little and running a hand over Dick’s wing, before he closed his eyes and drifted off into a contented, comfortable sleep. 

 

When Nixon awoke in the morning, he awoke to sunlight and warmth. A little too much warmth, actually. He opened his eyes and saw the arm stretched across his torso. Then his eyes followed the arm to the angel molded to his side, head resting beside Nixon’s on the same pillow. His eyes were open and warm, his face tender and sleepy. Nixon was so startled by the fact that Dick was awake, and the fact that he was laying there, just staring at Nixon, that Nixon just said sleepily, “Mornin’.” 

Dick smiled slowly at him in reply, saying softly, “Morning.” 

“What time is it?” Nixon asked, running a hand across his face. The light was bright enough for it to be past dawn, but dawn was awfully early in the summer. 

Dick turned to glance at the clock. “It’s almost seven. A record for you, I should think.” Nixon could hear the smirk in his voice. He flipped over onto his stomach and groaned into his pillow, already dreading getting out of bed, where things were warm and easy and almost didn’t seem real. Dick’s arm still stretched across his body, just over his back now. Dick’s easy chuckle floated across the room as he sat up, running his hand down Nixon’s back absentmindedly. 

“Well, maybe breakfast will change your mind about the morning.” 

“Try me,” Nixon grumbled, already feeling the need to get up, as much as his mind and body protested. Dick stood and stretched, his chest bare and bathed in sunlight. Nixon had to look away to keep from drooling a little bit. Dick pulled on jeans and carefully folded his wings, before pulling on his t-shirt. Nixon hadn’t really thought about how difficult getting a shirt on would be if you had huge wings on your back. Dick made it look easy, even though Nixon could tell that his method had taken a significant amount of time to perfect into a simple maneuver. 

First, his wings tucked against his back. Dick then pulled the shirt over his head, making sure to get the tops of his wings through the slits of the fabric. Then he pulled the shirt the rest of the way down while spreading out his wings just enough to get them to pop through the slits in the fabric. Nixon watched him, silent. He ended up drifting off when Dick left the room, feeling oddly empty without someone lying next to him. 

Dick woke Nixon up with a call from downstairs. Nixon grumbled and complained, dragging the blanket off of the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders, not unlike a cape. He shuffled down the stairs, the sunlight feeling less and less welcome as it hit his skin more and more directly. Dick greeted him with a smile brighter and warmer than any sun Nixon had ever seen. He tried to smile back, but it came out more like a grimace, and he almost slipped on the edge of his blanket and the slippery kitchen floor. Nixon collapsed into his chair at the table, resting his cheek on the cool wood. 

With a clink, Dick set a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and hash browns in front of Nixon. Nixon slipped an arm out of his blanket and took up fork and knife, silently sending waves of gratitude to the man before him. Dick sat opposite Nixon and dug in, reading an old copy of the paper that Nixon had picked up on his weekly mail run. 

“By the way,” Dick began, suddenly fidgeting. “Sorry if this morning was awkward for you, I didn’t want to wake you up.” 

Nixon hoped Dick couldn’t see the blush that began to crawl up his face. He shrugged, saying, “I didn’t find it awkward. Or unwelcome.” he regretted the last part as soon as it was out of his mouth, and he quickly looked down at his plate, finding the eggs very interesting. 

There was silence and a lack of movement from Dick for a moment, before a small, bashful smile wound its way onto his face. “Good,” was all he said, turning his attention back to the paper. Nixon couldn’t help but grin a stupid little grin into his orange juice as well. He felt a sort of warm sunlight-type thing expand in his chest, chasing away the last few drops of alcohol. Nixon’s smile stayed on his face long after breakfast.


	4. Wendigo/Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Welsh calls Nixon, asking for help.

As Dick became more and more of a normal thing; an unquestioned part of Nixon’s life, it became harder and harder for Nixon to hide the fact that he was a hunter. The phone calls, often in the middle of the night, were difficult to keep quiet with Dick sleeping right next to him. Nixon still had to do research, and lots of it. It became more difficult to inform the other hunters that he advised while Dick was walking around the house and could figure it out at any moment. Nixon desperately didn’t want to scare Dick away. He was becoming, by far, the best addition to Nixon’s life in a long time, and Nixon didn’t want to give that up any time soon. 

Dick was a very positive influence on Nixon, and he knew it. Nixon noticed he was going through bottles of the Vat much slower than before, just by being around Dick. And after a long day of research, he wasn’t itching for a hard drink like he used to. Instead, those urges were replaced by a beer and by watching the news with Dick at night. 

Dick Winters appeared on the news a couple of times, to their surprise. He was being broadcast as a missing person, presumed dead, as his body had not been found yet. The stately woman speaking told viewers in Pennsylvania to keep an eye out, and report anything. That left a bad taste in Nixon’s mouth, and after that, he had a newfound appreciation of Dick. 

Of course, Arden was still out there, a lurking shadow that the light of Dick had drowned out a little for Nixon. Arden was still looking for Dick, and the angel was in no hurry to announce to news outlets everywhere that he was alive and well and living in the middle of nowhere with a reclusive alcoholic. 

And then, of course, there was that invisible wall of tension, of resistance between them ever since the kiss. They were still sleeping together, but no further action had taken place. It was confusing and a little frustrating to Nixon, but he was relieved he wouldn’t have to talk about it with Dick. Not at the moment, at least. But, because Nixon’s brain often betrayed him, he couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, how good it felt to press against Dick and feel his body beneath his hands. It was distracting, especially since Dick was often doing work outside and would come in, dripping in sweat and golden from the sun. 

Somehow, Nixon managed just fine, all things considered. He rode his motorcycle into town every week to get groceries, and somehow he kept himself and Dick alive. Nothing had attacked Nixon’s house in a suspiciously long time, and no illegal poachers had wandered onto his property in months. Nixon fully realized how peaceful it was, and he didn’t want to do anything break the peace. 

However, sometimes the other hunters in his circle dragged him out of his cave every once in awhile. On a hot night in late August, Nixon was lying awake, sweating and all too aware of the sleeping angel beside him, shirtless and covers thrown aside. The moonlight made everything dreamy and soft, and the temptation was there, just below Nixon’s skin. The buzzing of his phone on the nightside table jerked him out of his reverie, and Nixon sat up, squinting blearily at the bright screen. 

It was Harry Welsh, a hunter that Nixon met when he was first starting out. Harry and Nixon got along well, and sometimes he and his wife would swing by and have a drink with Nixon. The best part was, Kitty, Harry’s wife, was a doll who could handle her liquor better than Harry. She and Nixon got along well. 

“Hello?” Nixon answered softly, looking back at Dick, who was still sleeping. “Harry?” Nixon asked, running a hand through his hair. 

“Nixon, thank God.” came Harry’s strangled voice. The line crackled and Nixon leaned forward, pressing the phone against his ear. “We, uh, Kitty and I, we’re in New Jersey. Wendigo. It’s fucking hunting us. We need help,--” Nixon stood up and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

“Like, as in you need me there? Or you need research?” Nixon’s chest felt constricted and fluttery, in a bad way. Harry sounded tired and scared. “Are you two okay?” he asked, suddenly worried. 

“Huh? Oh yeah, we’re great.” Harry’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Kitty’s leg is hurt and I have a scrape on my side. Pretty nasty. We need you here, as soon as possible.” 

Nixon took a deep breath through his nose, leaning back against the wall. “Of course. I can be there by morning. Do you know exactly where you are?” 

As Harry told Nixon where they were hunting, Nixon walked back into the bedroom and pulled a duffel bag out of his closet. He began stuffing it with clothes and toiletries, tucking the handgun from the nightside table into the side pocket. Harry hung up with a crackle of static and Nixon felt determination and resignation settle into his bones. He was ready to help his friend, no matter the cost. 

There was a stirring from the bed. Nixon glanced over, stepping into his jeans. Dick sat up, blinking awake. His wings spread out, silver and gray in the moonlight. “Nix?” he asked, voice sleepy and confused. Nixon felt dregs of guilt creep in, it hadn’t really occurred to him that he would have to leave Dick. 

“My friend called me, he’s hurt and in trouble and I have to go help him,” Nixon said in a rush, taking off his sleep shirt and throwing on an actual t-shirt. He felt Dick’s eyes on him. 

“So you’re leaving.” Dick said slowly. Nixon felt guilty at the edge of hurt in his voice. 

“Yes, but only for a couple of days at the very most.” Nixon picked out his jacket, despite the heat. He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder, jacket under his other arm. Dick was still watching him. “Listen, I’ll try and call every day, okay?” Nixon said, crossing the room and comfortingly cupping Dick’s cheek. Up close, Dick’s eyes looked silver, like someone had trapped liquid moonlight in his eyes. They slipped closed as Dick leaned into the touch. 

Nixon felt a little like he was crumbling. He hated leaving Dick, he hated that he had to beat around the bush about hunting, he hated that things weren’t 100% truthful between them. Dick’s eyes opened and took Nixon in, completely and fully. After a moment of hesitation, Nixon surged forward and kissed Dick lightly on the lips, briefly. 

Dick seemed surprised, but after a moment, he reciprocated, his hand finding a place in Nixon’s hair. Nixon pulled away regretfully, quickly leaning his forehead against Dick’s. “I’ll be back soon, okay?” he said, his thumb stroking across Dick’s forehead. And with one last peck to the forehead, Nixon melted back into the shadow, leaving Dick. 

As he walked through their silent house, Nixon felt better about the situation. He had promised to Dick, and he was completely prepared to keep that promise. On his way out the door, Nixon wrote down his cell phone number and left it on the kitchen table, in case Dick needed to call him. Nixon took the rifle off the wall above the door, tucking that into the top of his bag. After one last glance at the dark house, Nixon slipped into the warm night air, locking the door behind him with finality. 

The motorcycle was in the mostly empty garage beside the house, and Nixon took off the cover. The metal was cool beneath his hands. Helmet under one arm, duffel bag slung over his back, Nixon turned the key in the ignition and sped away, into the silver night, leaving his angel and his house in the gray night behind him. 

 

The ride was a monotonous highway, devoid of life for long stretches of time before Nixon passed a car. His thoughts were mostly blank, focusing on how to get to the remote stretch of forest that Harry was most likely bleeding out in. His mind mechanically sorted his knowledge of wendigos, how to hunt them, how to protect one’s self from them. His mind occasionally spiked in terror, forcing his hand to jerk, his motorcycle to rev and the highway to fly by faster underneath his wheels. 

As the sun slowly rose over the road, more cars filtered onto the road. Nixon pulled over once for gas and a 5-hour energy, feeling sore and stiff and mentally numb, all at the same time. the forest was only a little ways further, and Nixon reached it quickly. He had also bought bandages at the gas station, and those were crammed in his pockets and into the top of his bag. Nixon reached the forest soon enough, paved roads giving way to gravel, which eventually gave way to dirt, which thinned down to barely a stripe through the thick woods and brush. 

Finally, the road opened into a small clearing, and Nixon saw the Welsh’s car parked to the side. He pulled up next to it and turned off the engine, ears ringing and straining in the comparative silence. He stepped off of the bike, pulling out his handgun and tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. He carefully crept into the woods, following a human trail from a couple of days before. It was faint, as Harry and Kitty knew how to hide their tracks well, but Nixon was highly adept at tracking, and it wasn’t too difficult to track their steps. 

Harry said that they would try and get closer to the car, but as Nixon walked, he saw no signs of them. He stopped once to pee and cross a shallow river, where he lost their trail. Sighing against the magnitude of the task before him, Nixon splashed into the creek, feeling the cool water fill his shoes and soak him up to the knee. He made sure to keep his phone well above the water, and keep his bag dry. It wouldn’t help anyone if he came with a water-logged gun to a very active wendigo hunt. 

As the forest got hotter and Nixon continued slowly through it, he began to become consumed by thoughts of the worst; that Harry and Kitty had fallen prey to the wendigo over the night, that Arden had finally decided to attack and had killed Dick. He felt a sort of panic rise up in him, an itching in his bones and skin. Nixon suddenly felt the urge to tear through the forest, reckless and wild. He quelled it by calling Harry again, even though his phone only had one bar of service, and barely at that. The ringing of the phone was an alien, harsh sound in the forest, while Nixon had been surrounded by only sounds of nature for so long. 

“Nixon, thank God,” came Harry’s crackling voice, after five rings. “We’re ah-we’re pretty immobile. My side is acting up, Kitty’s in some serious pain,” he cut off, an indistinct female voice in the background. 

“I was able to follow your trail to the river, I’ve been wandering since then. Where are you two?” Nixon asked, pausing to gaze up at the sky, latticed by trees, far above. 

Kitty answered this time, “We’re about a mile, I think, North-west of the river, where our tracks fade. We went further, but the ‘digo chased us back to here. We’re uh, we’re on top of a boulder, our camp is set up here. It’s in some thick trees, but you should be able to find it kinda easily.” 

“Coming your way,” Nixon said, glancing at the sun and changing his course accordingly. He walked for a while, feeling tired and already ready to be back at home, with Dick. The forest was deep and the trees cast long shadows as Nixon tromped through the thigh-deep foliage. A couple of times, when he stepped close, he heard things scampering or slithering away through the undergrowth, but nothing confronted him. Still, Nixon kept his knife drawn at all times, comforted by the handgun tucked into the back of his jeans. 

After an hour or so of walking, Nixon got lucky. Kitty and Harry, in their states of pain and hurt, had gotten sloppy. Dried blood splattered the ferns in some places, and when Nixon looked closely, he could see two sets of footprints, only a day or so old. Nixon followed those, stepping quietly and hoisting his duffel bag higher over his shoulder. 

The trees began to thicken around Nixon. He glanced around, looking for the rock. After following their tracks for another hundred yards, Nixon spotted the rock. The side had a long drip of blood slowly drying on it’s face, which worried Nixon. Harry probably understated the condition he and his fiancée were in. Nixon was glad he bought the bandages at the gas station, he had a feeling he would need them. 

The rock was easily thirty feet tall, and as Nixon slowly circled it, there was no easy way to get up. One face, however, was a lot less steep than the others, and Nixon stopped beneath it. “Harry!” he called. “Kitty! It’s me, Nixon!” 

Harry’s unmistakable mop of curly hair poked out over the edge. He smiled his gap-toothed smile when his eyes landed on Nixon. “Nixon, you dog, get on up here!” Nixon sighed and began to climb, scrambling and scraping his way up in a most undignified manner. He was out of breath and a little irritated by the time he reached the top, where Harry lent him a hand and helped pull him onto the flat top of the rock. 

Nixon surveyed their camp with grim reality. It was roughly circular, maybe 20 feet across at the widest, and it was a mess. Blood, both dry and wet, patched their area in grim splashes. Two backpacks leaned against each other a little ways away from the middle, their contents strewn about the camp. Two bedrolls were unrolled, overlapping one another. Kitty, her blonde hair sticking to her forehead with perspiration, was stretched out on them. Harry clutched at his side, panting. Their camp was littered with used bandages, food wrappers, ammunition being loaded, a journal, and other loose junk. 

Nixon nodded to Kitty, who replied with a grimace passed off as a smile. Nixon felt a switch go off in him, turning on his medic, overprotective self. “Let’s see your wounds, then, and Harry, you can tell me the details about this thing.” He dragged his bag over to Kitty, carefully easing her pant leg up over the bandage. Harry knelt next to her, slipping his hand into hers, in comfort. Nixon carefully took off the bandage, assessing the wound. “You don’t have anything to stitch it with?” He asked. Harry shook his head, a grim expression on his face. 

“We lost a lot of our supplies, running through this goddamn forest. This thing is relentless, but I think it’s giving us a bit of a break. It doesn’t want us to be too weak or small when it kills us.” 

“It’s probably getting one final meal before the winter,” Nixon remarked, pulling dental floss and a needle out of his bag. After threading it, he fished around for a lighter. After sterilizing the needle, Nixon raised his eyebrow at Kitty, who nodded and gritted her teeth. 

It was grisly work, and Nixon hated every second of it. Kitty hated it as well. She squirmed and sweated and Nixon could see that her knuckles were white where she gripped Harry’s hand. Harry, meanwhile, told Nixon what they had to fight it with, and what they had tried already. Harry and Kitty were competent hunters, they knew that the only way to kill a wendigo was torching it. Harry said that they had torches, and he was able to singe one of its legs when they were running away. 

“I don’t know how we managed to get away, but thank God we did,” Harry quipped, releasing his side to run his hand softly over Kitty’s hair. She leaned into the touch, her eyes slipping closed. Nixon realized that Harry was getting blood in her hair, and it struck him for a reason he couldn’t quite figure out. He busied himself with quickly finishing stitching her leg, and then wrapped it firmly with a fresh bandage. 

Nixon realized that his hands were bloody and shaking. Nixon was okay with blood, he was a hunter after all, but it was getting to him a little bit. There was a reason he stayed in his house and read books, after all. As Kitty sat up slowly, carefully, Nixon reached for his hip flask, to clean his hands and to steady his nerves. As he groped about his belt, Nixon realized that he had forgotten it. He had stopped carrying it everywhere in daily life, and he figured that while running out the door, he must have simply forgotten it altogether. That struck a chord in him. 

Wiping his hands on his jeans, Nixon got another long stretch of floss ready. He sterilized the needle as best as he could, and gestured for Harry to come closer. Harry released Kitty’s hand and took off his jacket. Nixon noticed that whatever caused the wound sliced through his jacket and his shirt underneath. Harry pulled off his shirt, shivering in the shadows despite the comfortable temperature. 

As Nixon regarded the wound, he felt his hope for the situation begin to slip away. “Harry, that’s a little bit more than a scratch.” Nixon said slowly, hopeless panic beginning to build in his chest. He forced it down with a deep, steadying breath, as Harry put on a pained smile. 

“What can I say? The thing’s got claws. It’s not that bad.” 

Nixon felt like screaming,  _ No, it  _ is  _ that bad!  _ Instead, he began to stitch up the still-oozing wound. It was even bloodier than Kitty’s leg, and Nixon was sure it hurt a lot more than her leg had. It wasn’t over soon enough, and as soon as he had a bandage wrapped around Harry’s chest, Nixon stumbled away, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. He sat on the edge of the rock, feet hanging over the edge, trying to control his stomach and his rapid breathing. Realizing he had blood on his hands, Nixon desperately wiped them on his jeans. 

There was a reason Nixon preferred to stay in his farmhouse and do research and stay out of the action. It was often grisly work, and sometimes the risk was too high to take. No hunters Nixon had heard of lived past late middle age, unless they permanently gave up hunting and moved to somewhere with very few monsters in comparison to the United States. Islands were generally the new home of choice, and Nixon couldn’t blame them. Though, he considered, Dick would surely get sunburned if they moved to an island. 

Right. Dick. With shaking hands, Nixon pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed his home phone number. The three rings in the still air were torture, and they gave Nixon plenty of time to imagine all of the horrible things that could have happened in the eight or so hours he had been gone. Kidnappings, killings, a freak storm, Arden, a clumsy fall, all of the bad possibilities ran  through Nixon’s head as he sat there, listening to the tinny ring of the phone. 

“Lew?” Dick answered. Nixon felt relief surge through his body, more powerful than any alcohol. He suddenly felt very relaxed, all of the invisible tension from before draining out of his body so fast it almost made him dizzy. 

“Hey, yeah it’s me,” Nixon’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat, glancing back at Harry and Kitty, who were busy helping each other clean and sort out their gear. “How are you, how are things back there?” Nixon asked. 

“I’m content. The house is still standing, if you’re wondering that.” there was a small pause. “The house is a little quiet without you, even though you’re a pretty quiet person. Feels a little...empty.” Dick sounded a bit lonely, Nixon realized. It occurred to him that he wasn’t the only one benefiting from living with another person. The new arrangement probably had a good effect on Dick as well. 

“I’ll try and get home as soon as possible.” Nixon said, feeling lousy and guilty. He suddenly missed Dick more than he could articulate. He sighed, wishing he was back in bed with Dick’s red hair and fiery wings under his fingertips, instead of in the middle of nowhere in a forest waiting for a supernatural creature to confront them. He wished, more than ever, that he could easily tell Dick about the hunting, about what made noises in the dark, about what slipped out of your vision the second you turned your head. He wished he didn’t have to keep Dick in the dark. 

There was a pause, where each man listened to the other breathing on the other end. Dick said, very quietly, so quietly that Nixon had to strain to hear, “I miss you. It’s silly, you’ve only been gone a couple of hours, but I miss you.” 

Nixon felt his heart ache painfully, yearning to be back at home, just to stand beside Dick and make breakfast with him and watch him garden and read. “I miss you too.” he said, his throat feeling awfully constricted. Nixon cleared his throat, running a hand along his jeans. “Listen, I promise I’ll come back in one piece.” 

“I’m holding you to that,” Dick said, and Nixon could hear a small smile in his voice. Nixon saw Harry beginning to pile all of the food in the center of the rock. With a chuckle, Nixon said, 

“Okay, I better get going, Harry is going to hurt himself trying to make lunch. I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

“Okay,” Dick responded. “See you,” And with that, Nixon hung up, realizing he was feeling much, much better than he was mere minutes before. With a small smile still on his face, he pocketed his phone and stood, walking to where Harry was making a small stack out of their supplies. 

“Watch it, hotshot, you’re going to pull your stitches and ruin my handiwork,” Nixon said, carefully guiding Harry back to the bedroll, where Kitty was slowly and carefully cleaning a hunting knife. 

“Oh yeah? And who were you talking to about going back home to, Mr. Bachelor?” Harry retorted, gingerly sitting down next to Kitty. 

Nixon felt a stupid blush color his cheeks as he turned away, suddenly finding half a loaf of bread to be very interesting. “Oh, no one.” Nixon avoided the question. 

“Oh no, not no one. You tell us mister, who this mystery lady is.” Nixon sighed, realizing that he wouldn’t be able to avoid Harry’s questions for long at all. 

“Well first of all,  _ he  _ and I aren’t together.” Nixon’s brain flashed back to the two (three?) times he had kissed Dick, and all the countless times he wanted to. “Well, not technically. He stumbled onto my property about two months ago, being hunted by this bigoted maniac whom we still haven’t managed to apprehend.” 

Harry and Kitty took it all in with barely a flutter of an eyelash. 

“He’s an angel,” Nixon added, though it didn’t really add anything to the conversation. He felt his lips tug up in a stupid grin and he banished it, forcing his happiness to stay beneath his skin. Nixon pulled a knife and a half-empty container of peanut butter out of his duffel bag. He began making a sandwich, cutting it in half and handing each half to each half of the Grogan-Welsh couple. 

Kitty sent Nixon a relieved smile, while Nixon settled back with the jar of peanut butter to eat straight out of. Harry seemed to be turning something over in his head, his eyebrows drawn together beneath his curls. “Does this angel make you happy, Nixon?” Harry asked. 

Nixon didn’t hesitate to answer, “Yeah. He makes me really happy.” Nixon didn’t mention that his alcohol consumption rate had decreased significantly since Dick had moved in. 

Harry smiled. “As long as you two make each other happy, my best wishes go your way.” He bit into his sandwich, twining his fingers with Kitty’s. “Oh, before I forget, save the date for our wedding.” 

“Ah, you’ve picked one?” Nixon asked, digging a mouthful of peanut butter out of the jar with his knife. Kitty and Harry had been engaged for over six months without picking a date, what with their lives constantly being at stake, and it came as a pleasant surprise to Nixon. It was always uplifting to see hunter couples that worked out well, two people that completed each other as they did their job well. Often it was too dangerous a concept for many hunters to even consider, but Kitty and Harry had made it work since the beginning of their relationship. 

“We’ve decided on a winter wedding. We think November sixth would be a good time.” Kitty said, rubbing her thumb on the back of Harry’s hand. 

“Well, give me a location and I’ll be there,” Nixon said, smiling between the two of them. “I mean, congratulations, you two. A story like yours is hard to find these days.” 

Harry chuckled, sending a smile in Kitty’s direction. “What can I say?” he asked, gazing at Kitty. “We’re lucky.” He leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek, only to wince and grip his side. Suddenly the reality of the situation was all the more pressing to Nixon. He ate peanut butter until the gnawing ball of anxiety in his stomach was quelled a little. After they finished eating, Nixon cleaned up the top of the rock while Kitty and Harry tried to get some rest. Harry protested, said he would help Nixon clean up and keep watch, but it was late afternoon and he was exhausted. 

Nixon was happy to give the couple some well-deserved downtime. Kitty passed out almost instantly, and Harry sat next to her, trying to wipe some of the dried blood from her forehead. Nixon could see the worry in his eyes. Eventually he tenderly stretched out beside her, breaths shallow so as not to disturb the stitches in his side. 

Nixon loaded all of their weapons, ignoring the pit of dread in his chest that said,  _ Those aren’t nearly enough.  _ He made sure to pack away their food and pick up loose items of clothing strewn around their camp. While he cleaned, he quietly took stock of all of their possessions, in terms of enough or not enough. Food: enough. Clothes: enough. Ammunition: not enough. Weapons: not enough. First aid: not enough. Health: not enough. Water: enough. Morale: not enough. Alcohol: not enough. 

By then, it was late afternoon. Nixon knew that sunset would be sometime around seven o'clock, and that the forest would darken quickly and completely once the sun dipped below the mountains. He knew with absolute certainty that the wendigo would come for them as soon as darkness descended over the forest and they were at a disadvantage. Nixon knew by the knot of dread in his stomach that according to all probability, they would all be dead in two days. Suddenly the idea of a wedding in November seemed pitiful and silly, the idea a child has of divorced parents getting back together and putting their differences behind them for the sake of the child. Nixon was intimately familiar with that. 

Harry woke around six. Kitty was still sleeping, sweat beading her forehead. He and Nixon ate a little while Harry filled Nixon in on the status of all of the other hunters in their circle. Buck was in Liberia for some unknown reason, Luz and Toye had teamed up with Perconte and were in California, hunting a group of vampires in the Sierra Nevadas. Skip Muck, Penkala, and Malarkey were in Montana on suspicion of a djinn, Guarnere was in the South for some unknown reason with his new charge, Babe. Last anyone had heard from Liebgott, he was taking a break to visit someone at Harvard. Nixon was the closest to Harry after all. Help couldn’t come for them. 

As Nixon gnawed on a heel of bread, it occurred to him how alone they were in the forest, fighting the wendigo. They had no one to call to come help them. That fact caused a sort of grim acceptance to settle into his chest, the sort of feeling that the journey will be rough and tangled, but it’s well worth it to get to the end. 

Kitty woke up around seven, just as the sun peeked its last rays through the trunks of the trees. Nixon was busy loading his body with the weapons he would need that night. Flashlight in his breast pocket, matches in his left pocket, extra ammo and lighter fluid in his right pocket, pistol tucked into the waist of his jeans, rifle over one shoulder. Knife at hip, another in his right boot. Every weapon, loaded and ready. Nixon took a deep, steadying breath. He could make it out alive, against all odds. He packed up his bag, fed Kitty some food, replaced bandages on the couple, and steeled himself for the following evening. His phone sat over his heart, on the inner pocket. 

Kitty and Harry prepared in a similar fashion. They stood very close to one another as they loaded their weapons, packing their bags and bodies. Their arms brushed as they moved in tandem, a well-oiled machine of a couple. They didn’t talk about how one or both of them could very well die that night. 

The forest was darkening quickly, a new chill creeping up the rock. Nixon piled all of their extra gear in the center of the rock. The three then took up their places to watch, eyes scanning the dark forest. Nixon felt nervous beyond reason, but at the same time, he was lulled into a kind of meditation. The rhythmic movements of the bugs in the dying light caused his brain to slow down. It occurred to him that he had woken up in the middle of the night and trekked through a forest to find his friends. Energy wasn’t his most available resource. 

Nixon was incredibly aware of his surroundings. His ears were ringing with the sounds of cicadas, and he felt as if his eyes were straining out of his head to see into the growing darkness. He was aware of Kitty sitting roughly ten feet to his right, and of harry sitting roughly ten feet to his left. He was aware of his own breathing, slow and rhythmic. He remembered someone teaching him that as long as he kept his breathing in check, he could control his body and his thoughts. He wouldn’t be susceptible to panic. Nixon wasn’t sure how much he believed that. 

They sat for hours, sometimes rotating their positions on the rock, but never ceasing to keep their eyes on the forest. After being in his position for a good twenty minutes, Nixon became aware of a gray smear at the edge of the forest, about 150 yards out. He turned to face it and squinted, leaning forward to peer at the new shape. He whistled once, softly, to get Harry’s attention. Harry looked, and just as his eyes widened, the thing moved. Fast. 

Suddenly everything started happening at once. Harry shouted and Kitty wheeled around, opening fire. Nixon ducked, seeing the thing dart impossibly fast towards their site. He leveled the rifle and opened fire. Harry scrambled back, reaching for the saddest Molotov cocktail Nixon had ever seen. The wendigo could have easily run around the rock and attacked them from behind but instead it charged them head on, leaping onto the boulder like it was no problem. Nixon scrambled to get the lighter fluid out. Harry threw the bottle, but the wendigo dodged it. Nixon scrambled back, letting loose a spray of lighter fluid. That caused the wendigo to pause, growling and shaking it’s head. 

“Harry, Kitty, fire, now!” Nixon screamed as he let loose another spray of fluid. He was reaching for his matches as Kitty was struggling to quickly light a match. Harry shot the thing again, bullets landing square in the head of the wendigo. The wendigo’s eyes snapped to Harry and it charged, hitting Harry square in the chest as they both tumbled off of the rock. 

“Harry!” Kitty screamed as she ran forward. There was a thud from below them, and then Harry’s pained yell. Nixon rushed forward, brandishing a lit match. The wendigo and Harry struggled below them. Nixon was about to drop the match when Kitty’s hands grabbed him, throwing him away from the edge. “What are you doing?” she yelled, eyes wide. “You’ll kill Harry!” Just then, Harry let out a yell as the wendigo’s teeth landed purchase in his forearm. 

Nixon felt resolution settle into his  bones. With a final match lit, he jumped over the edge of the rock, directly onto the wendigo ten feet below him. His heels struck hard on the wendigo’s neck, causing a loud snapping noise. It’s torso snapped one way while Nixon landed hard on his side. 

The fall knocked the wind out of Nixon and he scrambled onto his feet, struggling to breathe. The wendigo growled and momentarily let go of Harry, choosing instead to attack Nixon. Nixon scrambled back, lighting another match. He desperately flung it at the wendigo, but the throw landed short. He lit another as the thing charged. This time, the match hit the wendigo’s gray shoulder. The lighter fluid on its skin ignited with a hiss. The wendigo screamed and writhed as it leaped towards Nixon, fully ablaze. It landed on him and Nixon scrambled to kick it off, feeling the flames lick at his jacket. He groped for the lighter fluid and shot some more at the wendigo as it lay on the ground, burning to a crisp. 

Nixon lay back, breathing heavily as he watched the thing burn. His blood thrummed with adrenalin as the wendigo seemed to shatter into ashes. He regarded the monster alight with grim satisfaction, knowing deep in his bones that he had helped save his friends. 

Speaking of which, Nixon turned to look at Harry, who was trying to pick himself off of the ground. “I think I cracked a rib,” he struggled to get out. Nixon kneeled beside him, helping him get off of the ground and onto his feet. Kitty came around the side of the rock and looked at the remains of the wendigo. She paused to spit onto it. Then, she rushed to Harry’s side, and the two hugged for a good minute. Kitty had to hold Harry gingerly because of his possibly cracked rib and healing side. 

Nixon, meanwhile, felt a sort of elation he hadn’t felt in a long time. He suddenly appreciated the fact that he was alive, that things were alright in the world, that he would return to his angel in one piece. The forest was comforting again, even though just moments before it had harbored a monster most fearsome. He walked a little ways away from Harry and Kitty, pulling his phone out of his pocket. It was only two or so in the morning, it wasn’t too late to call Dick. 

He dialed with numb fingers and a rising sense of elation. Dick picked up after the third ring. “Yeah?” his voice was sleepy and rough and it made Nixon want to cry a little out of happiness because to him, in that moment, in sounded like home. 

“I love you,” Nixon let out in a rush, feeling a laugh bubble up inside of him. 

“What?” Dick asked, sounding a little more awake. 

“I’m alive and I’m happy to be alive and I think I’m in love with you,” Nixon said. Saying the words out loud made everything seem way more real. “And I don’t care what happens to me now,” he said with a little laugh. 

“Is there any particular reason for this confession?” Dick asked. 

“Nope,” Nixon replied. “I just realized that I don’t want to die without you knowing.” There was silence for a moment, where Nixon could almost hear a smile on the other end. 

“Well, I had planned for you to be present when I told you this, but I love you too.” Dick’s voice was soft and reverent yet certain, and Nixon felt like he might cry out of relief and happiness. He had an angel in his house, sleeping in his bed, and the angel loved him back. 

“You’re the best goddamn thing to come to me for a long time, you know that, right?” Nixon asked, feeling his throat constrict a little around his words. 

“You saved my life, Lew.” Dick said softly. Nixon felt a face-splitting grin take over his mouth. 

“I’ll rush home, I’ll be there within twelve hours, okay?” He felt a nervous sort of excitement build in his chest. 

“I await your return,” Dick said, jokingly but with an air of truth. 

“I’ll see you when I get home.” Nixon signed off. “I love you.” Saying those words aloud still sent a thrill of emotion through his body. 

“I love you too,” Dick said. Nixon hung up with a click, and looked at his phone screen before laughing with joy and exhilaration. Dick loved him back! And Dick was waiting for him at home, and Nixon was alive and suddenly the world was worth living through. 

Nixon practically floated over to Harry and Kitty, who were busy limping back to the rock. “We’re gonna sleep the rest of the night, we’re too tired and hurt to drive to a hospital and get Harry’s rib checked out,” Kitty said, as she helped Harry up on top of the rock. 

“I suppose I’ll stay here for the rest of the night, keep an eye out for you guys and get some rest before I go home,” Nixon said. He wanted to rush home right away and into Dick’s arms, but he knew that he was in no shape to race home on a motorcycle, if he could find his way out of the forest in the middle of the night. Besides, there could be other things lurking in the forest, and Nixon did not want to go and get himself killed. 

He helped Harry get comfortable on one of the mats, and Kitty laid next to him, twining their hands together. Nixon packed up his bag with all of the extra things he was carrying, so that he could leave as soon as possible in the morning, and he stretched out onto the face of the rock. It was cool to the touch and the stars were very bright above his head. Nixon fell asleep with a content, full feeling in his chest and a smile on his face. 

 

Nixon was up with the sunrise, filled with purpose and energy. Kitty awoke soon after, and the two packed up all of their belongings. Nixon’s body was humming with energy, ready to get up and go and get home as soon as possible. They woke Harry up and Nixon carried Harry’s backpack as they slowly trekked through the forest, back to the cars. Nixon loaded up their car and bid the couple a goodbye and a promise to stay in touch and to see them at the wedding. They were grateful to Nixon for rescuing them, and Kitty gave Nixon a pat on the shoulder and a friendly smile. 

“We’ll miss you, Nixon. Don’t be a stranger, okay? We want to meet this angel of yours.” 

“Okay, Kitty.” Nixon said with a little smile. “He’ll be my plus one to the wedding.” With that and a handshake to Harry, Nixon hopped on his motorcycle and sped away. Before long, the forest was no more than a deep green blur behind him, and the highway stretched before him. There weren’t that many cars, and Nixon took the roads at incredible speeds, thinking only of red hair and red-brown feathers and skin on skin and the promise of home. 

He pulled over once to fuel up, around six am. As he was hopping back on the bike, his phone buzzed. It was Dick. Nixon answered with a smile, “Hey,” 

“Nix! Oh, thank goodness.” Dick sounded panicked and scared. All of the sunshine that had been in Nixon’s chest suddenly turned to lead. 

“What is it?” Nixon asked, barely daring to breathe. 

“There’s a woman here, she’s trying to get to me, she’s hunting me and--” there was a thump to be heard in the background of the call. “Just get home soon, okay? I--I stabbed her when she tried to hurt me, but the wound closed and--” 

“I’m on my way,” Nixon said. He felt a seed of dread in his stomach, because the woman hurting Dick was most likely a demon, and he did not need Dick to find out about the hunting world, not now when everything was tender and new and frost could easily kill it. 

The line shut off as Dick shouted, and Nixon practically leaped onto his bike. He took the roads even faster, fear and protectiveness fueling his motivation at getting home fast. As he rode, he tried not to think about how Dick could already be dead, how that demon would kill him without a thought. 

As the countryside became familiar, as Nixon got closer and closer to home, his anxiety skyrocketed. Nixon turned down his driveway and skidded on the gravel, gunning down the one-car road towards his home. He skidded into the clearing where his house sat, practically leaping off of his bike. He pulled his rifle out, loading a salt shell while putting the rest in his pocket. The front door was open and Nixon flattened himself to one side of the house, taking a deep breath. Then, he spun and entered the house. 

Everything was silent. He took a step and suddenly felt a demon’s grip on his chest. He turned and saw Dick, tied to the chair by his desk. His mouth was taped with duct tape and there was a cut above his eye. A woman in her mid-twenties stood in front of him, her hand extended in a claw-like fashion. Her eyes flashed black and Nixon as Nixon felt his body rise off of the ground, he fired one shell at the woman. He hit her square in the chest and she screamed, dropping Nixon. 

Nixon knew he hadn’t knocked her out for too long. He quickly loaded and fired again, this time hitting the demon in her shoulder. Nixon lunged for his desk, where he knew a container of salt rested. Dick looked at Nixon helplessly as Nixon rummaged through his desk, finally landing purchase on the salt. He felt the demon grip his ankle and he turned, throwing salt on her. She recoiled with a shriek, writhing on the floor. Nixon took his chance and quickly poured a messy circle around her. 

He went over it once more to make sure she couldn’t get out, before he set the salt aside and turned to Dick. He gently pulled the tape off of his mouth. “Dick, my god... Are you okay?” 

Dick nodded weakly. “Sore and battered, but I’ll be okay.” Nixon kissed him once, quickly, as he untied Dick’s hands. He could hear the demon stirring. There was no time to waste. 

“Dick, I know none of this will make sense, but please just trust me and no matter what you do, don’t break the salt line.” 

Dick nodded weakly, even though it looked like he was incredibly confused. Nixon walked around so that he faced the demon as she sat up. “What’s your name and what the fuck are you doing in my house?” Nixon asked, brandishing the salt. 

“My name is Metrian. You killed my friend two years ago in Topeka.” She practically spat the words at Nixon. Nixon could barely remember exorcising a demon from a young child in Topeka, but suddenly the memories came flooding back. Her eyes turned pure black again. Dick, meanwhile, had finished untying himself and he unsteadily walked to Nixon’s side. Metrian’s eyes snapped to Dick. 

“Oh, and Arden wants your angel dead more than he has wanted anything in over six hundred years.” Ah. That made sense to Nixon, if Arden was a demon. Nixon and Dick glanced at one another. 

“Why does Arden want me dead so badly?” Dick asked quietly. 

Metrian laughed a sharp, bitter laugh. “He thinks you’re the closest thing to an angel of old, one that is in direct contact with God. He thinks you’re a member of the garrison, and he wants all of you angels dead. He believes that we demons are far superior to you angels. You were the ones who fell out of Heaven, after all.” Dick squared his shoulders at that, but Nixon was focused on the fact she had just admitted that Arden was a demon. 

Nixon felt a small pit of dread settle into his stomach. He inhaled sharply, crossing to his bookshelf. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he asked, pulling out one of his books and flipping to the page he had bookmarked, the one that contained the chant for an exorcism. 

“ _ Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”  _ Nixon chanted as Dick backed up, wings drawn half-way out, almost to protect himself. The demon hissed as she writhed, and as Nixon got louder and louder with the incantation, her movements became more pained-looking. Eventually she staggered to her feet, black smoke bubbling out of her mouth. She jerked this way and that, a sour look crossing over her face as her eyes flickered black and the smoke continued to pour out of her mouth. A kind of fiery portal opened in the floorboards beneath her, the smoke was sucked into that portal. 

Nixon read louder and with more intensity. He could feel Dick backing up, and noticed him startle when the portal opened up underneath Metrian. She sank to her knees, keeling over as the final tendril of black smoke left her body and flowed into the underworld. 

Her eyes, now back to a human’s, rolled back into her head as she toppled over. Nixon had finished the exorcism. He closed the book softly, placing it back on the shelf where it was. Dick’s wary eyes tracked the movement from the corner. Nixon crossed the room, kneeling outside of her salt ring. He pressed two gentle fingers to her wrist. Her skin was soft and warm. After a moment of stillness, he detected a barely-there pulse. So the demon Metrian hadn’t killed her vessel after all. Nixon picked her up with a sigh, dragging the woman’s body to the couch, where he propped her up. The place on his back where the anti-possession tattoo rested suddenly felt warm to Nixon. He shrugged it off, standing and taking a step back. 

Dick was still in the corner, his back practically to the wall. nixon turned to look at him. Dick’s wings were drawn, circling protectively around his torso. He had a look in his eyes, which seemed to be radiating soft golden light, that looked like an animal trapped in a cage, watching a gloved hand come down upon them. It made Nixon’s heart fall into his stomach, the fact that Dick would ever look that scared and hopeless while looking directly at Nixon. 

“What. The hell. Was  _ that. _ ” Dick gritted out, eyes flicking clearly to Metrian’s old vessel. Nixon couldn’t help realizing that it was the first time he had heard Dick use an expletive, even one as mild as hell. Dick’s eyes flickered over to the bookshelf where Nixon’s book that contained exorcisms lay. 

“Maybe you want to sit down as I tell you this,” Nixon suggested, opening his palms in a manner that suggested surrender. Dick shook his head resolutely. “Okay,” Nixon started. “So what used to be in her body? That thick black smoke?” Dick nodded slowly. 

“Jesus, well,” Nixon struggled to spit the words out. “That was a demon.” At Dick’s blank look, he added rather rhetorically, “from Hell.” 

Dick stared at Nixon. His wings shuffled a tiny bit, just enough for Nixon to see the edge of his jaw. His eyes stayed cold and mistrustful, which made Nixon feel real shitty, like he had just punched a puppy. 

“What did you do to...it?” Dick asked slowly. Nixon could see the cogs turning in his head. 

“I exorcised it.” Nixon said matter-of-factly. At Dick’s continued silence, he continued, “I sent it back to Hell. Now it can’t come back for a good long while.” 

“Say I believe you, which, to be honest, I’m having a really hard time doing right now, Lew, how did you know how to...exorcise this...demon?” Dick asked. Nixon could see his hand, balled into a fist by his side. Nixon knew, somehow, that he trod on thin ice. 

“I learned from my Dad, right before he died. He did this work before I was born. Then I met others who do this, and we all helped each other learn and fight these things. Still do, actually.” Nixon’s mind flashed to the network of hunters he was informing. 

Dick blinked rapidly, and took a deep breath through his nose. “I’m not lying to you, I swear.” Nixon said, letting his hands fall. Dick looked him steadily in the eye. Suddenly all of the fight seemed to drain out of the angel. His body went slack, his wings drawing back so that they rested flush with his spine. He took a shaky breath, running a hand through his short red hair. Nixon always hated this part, the explaining. It was never fun to watch someone’s perspective of reality crumble before his very eyes and know that he was the cause of it. 

“That’s the problem, then.” Dick said, voice thick. “Even though what you’re saying makes next to no sense, I know what I saw with my own two eyes, and there’s no denying what I saw.” He slowly lifted his head to regard Nixon. Nixon wanted to sink into the earth and return to a time where he and Dick were love-struck and happy. 

He crossed the room quickly, pulling a bottle of the Vat off of the recently unused liquor cart. With shaky hands, he uncapped the lid and poured a glass. The bite as it hit the back of his throat hurt in the best way possible. His eyes slipped closed as he took in the enormity of the events of the last ten minutes. 

_ Now to pick up all of the bowling pins.  _ Nixon thought with a weary sigh. He finished his drink and crossed towards the living room. He didn’t fail to notice how Dick drew in on himself as nixon approached, and Nixon’s chest constricted at that. He never ever wanted another innocent person to cower in front of him like that, ever again. 

Nixon crossed to where the human vessel slumped against the couch, and checked to make sure she was okay. Her heartbeat had gotten a little stronger, her breathing a little deeper. “Then who is she?” Dick asked. 

“A human who had the misfortune to become possessed. As soon as she wakes up, she’ll be back to normal. No idea how long she’s been possessed for, though.” The last part was mainly to himself. Nixon then went and got a small broom and a dustpan. He continued by sweeping up the salt and depositing it in a jar. When that was all cleaned up, he stored the jar above the fireplace, where it would be easily reachable if another demon entered. 

Nixon finally took a good look around the house, and realized the state it was in. Metrian and Dick must have had a vicious struggle, as everything was askew. The rug was bunched up by the couch, the lamp was on the floor, the curtains by Nixon’s desk were torn, red-brown feathers littered the area. As Nixon looked, his home suddenly looked very beat up. He was surprised Dick wasn’t harmed more. 

“Are you okay?” He asked Dick, stepping closer. When Dick gave him a look, Nixon clarified, “I mean, did Metrian hurt you. I know how it feels to have your sense of reality knocked out and hammered in anew.” 

Dick was silent for a moment, staring wearily at Nixon. “Aside from a few bruises and scrapes, I’m fine.” Nixon nodded, satisfied. He went about, straightening and fixing the place as best as he could. After a minute, Dick asked, “So if demons exist, what else? I’m sure there must be other things.” His voice had an edge of mistrust that Nixon didn’t like. 

“Oh, lots of things that go bump in the night.” Nixon crossed to his desk, where he pulled out a couple of his loose-leaf notebooks. No need to hide anything from Dick at that point, he figured. He placed them carefully next to Dick. “Page through these, they should have some information. If you want some archaic stuff, help yourself to the bookshelves.” Nixon gestured to the shelf behind him. As Dick warily picked up the top notebook, leafing through pages of Nixon’s handwritten notes and printed web pages and articles, Dick went back to straightening everything. 

He went into the cool early afternoon. On the porch, Nixon paused and took a deep breath, feeling a sort of shake start deep in him. He couldn’t break then. With a careful breath, not too deep, Nixon steeled himself. He crossed to where he had dumped his motorcycle. Righted it. picked up his duffel bag and brought it inside. Dropped it on the couch. 

Metrian’s vessel coughed, jolting upright. Nixon jumped from the sudden movement. Her eyes opened and latched onto Nixon. “Where am I?” she asked, panicked. 

“Pennsylvania.” Nixon answered. At her confused look, he asked, “Where are you supposed to be? What’s the last thing you remember?” 

“Walking down the street in Boise.” She answered, scratching her head. “Then it felt like I could only watch myself in third person. That thing inside of me…” her eyes suddenly turned joyous. “It’s gone. I can feel that it’s gone.” 

“Well, I can take you back to a train station, I can give you some cash to get back home.” 

The woman nodded thankfully. “I’d like that. It’s been a long time, watching that bitch control my body. I want to go back to my family as soon as possible.” 

“Then let’s go,” Nixon said, pulling out his wallet. “I got fifty, sixty, seventy five for you right now, and I have a motorcycle.” The woman nodded resolutely, getting to her feet. She walked a little unsteadily, but Nixon suspected it was because she hadn’t had control of her body for some long amount of time. 

With a small smile to Dick, Nixon exited the house with her. Nixon prayed he wouldn’t return to a home where Dick, scared and alone, had fled. As they sped into town, Nixon found out a lot about Metrian’s vessel. Her name was Amanda Fryer, and she had two kids back in Boise. When she found out it was August 2015, she cursed lightly. She had lost two months of her life to Metrian. Nixon had the feeling that she was strong, that she would survive the memories that would haunt her for the rest of her life. He left her with the money and his phone number, in case anything happened. 

The last image Nixon had of her was her, standing alone and strong on the train platform, no bags on her back and nobody beside her. It was an oddly striking image. Nixon sped back home, taking the turns fast. His only thoughts were of the relationship that he potentially sabotaged. 

He rolled into the garage, parked the motorcycle, and quickly covered it. He practically ran up the steps, his heart in his throat. At first glance, the house was empty. Then, Nixon saw Dick standing by Nixon’s desk, looking over some of his files on beasts and hunters in his circles. Dick looked up guiltily, his hands flying away from the files. 

“No, it’s fine,” Nixon said, sitting wearily on the couch. It had been an incredibly long day already. “I’ve kept enough from you, you deserve to look over everything.” That seemed to strike a chord in Dick. He turned around slowly, with purpose. 

“You lied to me.” he said it so surely and with such certainty it cut Nixon to his very core. Nixon turned his head away, he couldn’t bear to see Dick’s disappointed face. “When did you plan to tell me about all this?” Dick asked. His voice wavered once, the only hint of betrayal and anger that Dick showed. 

“I don’t know,” Nixon said helplessly, feeling like a blue balloon being pressed into by a pair of really dull scissors. “Somehow I hoped this would go over more smoothly, but I did intend for you to know.” 

Dick was silent. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring straight at Nixon. Nixon was sinking, mud sucking at his heart and heels. The couch had never felt softer. Nixon couldn’t look at Dick, he couldn’t help feeling like he was losing Dick before he even really had a hold on him. 

There was a long moment before Nixon said miserably to the floor, “I don’t blame you if you want to leave now.” 

Dick didn’t respond for a moment long enough for Nixon to lose all hope of ever keeping his angel with fiery hair and wings. Nixon felt a sort of sting behind his eyelids, which he tried to banish with a couple of rapid blinks. Even though Nixon still stared at the floorboards, unable to see the look in Dick’s eyes, he could feel the confusing swirl of emotion radiating off of Dick. 

“I’m not going to leave.” Dick said slowly. Nixon tore his gaze from the floor, finally meeting Dick’s blue eyes. 

“I’ll give you your space. I know if I was you I’d want some space for the next little while, at least.” Feeling oddly successful in emotional defeat, Nixon went upstairs and fetched his pillow and an extra blanket. As he set up his new bed on the couch, Dick slipped upstairs and didn’t come down for a good few hours. 

Nixon blinked tears away, filled with a feeling of intense self-loathing and defeat. Only he could screw up a relationship so easily. The sting of the Vat at the back of his throat was the only comfort he afforded himself that night; the couch was much too uncomfortable to be comforting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this was a mofo to edit. 14 fucking pages in word


	5. Obligatory Chapter of Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things kinda go to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal thoughts/actions. soul-shattering angst.

The days following the exorcism were stilted and awkward. Each man used many a petty excuse to avoid the other. Nixon started to finally clean out and reorganize his basement. Dick decided to begin planting as many new plants as he could fit into the garden. The days were hot and long and humid and Dick often came inside with an air of irritability. Nixon disappeared into his work for hours on end, recategorizing his notes. 

Dick still made them food, but both men wolfed down dinner as fast as possible, doing the dishes side by side with barely a brush of the shoulders between them. the Vat 69 became Nixon’s companion again, a constant weight at his hip or in his hand. Sunglasses helped, but not even the Vat could fully crush the feeling of terrible guilt in Nixon’s chest. 

Of course, there was a certain comfort in Nixon’s failure. Somehow, he knew he was bound to fuck up the best thing that had come into his life, and Nixon took a small amount of sick satisfaction in the fact that he correctly predicted his actions. 

Of course, the fact that he was right wasn’t so good because it meant that Nixon felt like shit because he knew he would probably never find someone like Dick ever again. 

The only time Nixon ever really got with Dick aside from dinner was in the evening, when they would sit on opposite ends of the couch and sit silently, both watching for anything of interest. If something hunting-related popped up, Nixon would immediately research it. 

In his process of organizing, he realized that Dick was actually reading some of his hunter books. He would try to hide the fact that he was reading the old tomes of Nixon’s at quite a fast pace, but Nixon was clever, and he knew when one of his books was moved. 

After a week of the new rhythm, Nixon was starting to get it down. Wake up, splash off in the shower, drink, eat some leftover breakfast, drink a little more, avoid Dick for most of the day, drink, eat dinner quickly, do dishes as fast as possible, watch news, drink, try to sleep it all off, wake up sometime around noon the next day. And even though his back hurt like hell and sometimes sunlight seemed to physically burn his skin, the new rhythm worked for Nixon. It worked, even though he felt a painful hole near his heart, which flared up everytime Dick ducked his gaze to avoid Nixon’s eyes. Then again, the Vat 69 helped with a lot of things. 

Nixon often fell asleep drunk those days. He had no memory of taking off his shoes or pulling blankets on top of himself when he passed out on the couch, but when he woke up in the morning his shoes were always off and a soft blanket was tucked around his torso. Dick didn’t admit anything. 

Whenever Nixon smelled of alcohol, or whenever he drunk in front of Dick, the angel would always send Nixon this  _ look _ , one that made Nixon feel guilty about ever bringing the Vat 69 into his life. He felt like shit when Dick gave him that look. It was pitying, a sort of sad disappointment that Nixon was all too familiar seeing from people. The worst part was, instead of those looks motivating him to do better, they only made him want to drown it out with more alcohol, or crawl into the dark basement and never see the light of day again. It was an awfully depressing thought. 

 

One time, Nixon did close to that. He went down into the basement with a full bottle, with all intentions of finishing it. He sat on the cold concrete, leaning back against the wall, slowly draining the bottle. Nixon had to bring his knees to his chest and rest his head on his kneecaps a couple of times, to keep from being sick. 

Sure enough, however, as the pain vanished a little, Nixon’s outlook on life became significantly less shitty. Nixon kept drinking, in order to keep the feeling lasting. After some time, Nixon must have fallen asleep, because it was suddenly very hard to open his eyes. His head was swimming in and out of consciousness, but there were hands on Nixon’s shoulders, gripping in tight and shaking with such intensity that it made it hard for Nixon to fully slip away. Also, there was a sort of sound…

“Nix! No, no, no, don’t you dare do this to me…” the voice sounded urgent in tone, but it sounded faint and fuzzy to Nixon’s ears. He thought he recognized Dick’s voice and he strained to open his eyes. Dick knelt in front of him, looking scared and fearful. 

“Dick?” Nixon asked, absently reaching a hand to touch Dick’s face. It fell short, however, and Nixon’s hand flopped into his lap. He felt his eyelids grow heavy, his breaths deeper. He heard a deep breath from Dick’s side, before there was suddenly an aura of golden light surrounding him. 

Nixon fully opened his eyes, incredulous. At first he thought he was dead, and he was seeing remnants of an angel’s true glory. Dick knelt in front of him, his wings spread to their full extent. His eyes glowed with an intensity that was difficult to look directly at. His wings glowed as well. Dick seemed to be on fire, Icarus himself descending calmly from the sun’s massive heat, transformed. 

_ A winter name for a man on fire _ , Nixon thought, before the light enveloped him, and it was warm, and soft, and almost brought tears of happiness to Nixon’s eyes because he felt welcome and loved and like everything he did in his lifetime on earth mattered, because he mattered more than words could say. 

Slowly, the light faded, and Nixon was back in his dark, cold basement, as Dick’s eyes turned back to their usual blue. Nixon no longer felt like he could drift out of existence. He realized, somewhat belatedly, that Dick had healed him with his Grace. Dick slumped back, looking exhausted. Forgetting momentarily that they were supposed to be avoiding one another, Nixon sat up, his hands on Dick’s shoulders. 

“Why did you do that?” Nixon asked. He felt better physically, but he felt guilty that Dick had used some of his divine power to heal Nixon, who wasn’t worth it, or anything. 

“Because I love you, and because you matter more to me than anyone else.” it was stated simply and plainly. Nixon sat back, in shock. 

“But I lied to you,” he said weakly. He didn’t want Dick to be nice and forgiving and understanding. Nixon wasn’t worth his forgiveness, not by a long shot. 

Dick didn’t respond. He gave Nixon that sad look again, and asked lightly, oh so lightly, but with so much meaning, “Why do you do this to yourself, Lew?” 

Nixon blinked back hot tears. He leaned his head back on the wall, reaching for the bottle. When he tried to take a swig, he realized it was empty. Feeling Dick’s eyes on him, Nixon said, so quiet he could barely hear himself over the chorus in his brain, “Because I am not worth anything.” 

“Bullshit.” Dick sounded angry then. The profanity startled Nixon out of his sadness and he looked, incredulous, at Dick. Dick sat up, moved closer. He leaned forward and pressed his lips oh so lightly to Nixon’s forehead. To Nixon, it felt like he was being blessed, and boy was he a sinner. Dick leaned his forehead against Nixon’s. His wings circled around the two of them. “You matter so much more than you know, Lew.” he said. His voice was sad and Nixon could not take it anymore. He stood suddenly, and made his way numbly to the couch upstairs, where he tried to drown out all of his problems by going to sleep. 

And though he couldn’t really tell, he thought that he saw Dick glance at him a lot the next day, almost as a way of checking in and making sure that Nixon wasn’t about to go on another suicidal drinking binge. 

 

Over dinner, Dick barely picked at his food. Suddenly, he looked up, directly at Nixon, instead of sort of to the side of him, as he had done of late. “Tell me, what was it like, getting into hunting? I mean, how did it happen?” 

Nixon was startled, but he leaned back, meeting Dick’s eyes. He was incredulous at how easy it was. So, Nixon told him. How he grew up in the city, with estranged parents. How he went to Yale. How when he was two weeks away from nineteen, his father called him up, hysterical. Saying his mother’s ‘disappearance’ was actually because she was killed by a demon. The subsequent paperwork that filed Nixon Sr. into a mental hospital. His death, fourteen months later. The troves of belongings that were suddenly Nixon’s. How Nixon found the weapons his father used to hunt with, old journals, photographs, letters from other hunters. 

And so, Nixon picked up the family business. Called up one of his dad’s old buddies, Strayer, and Nixon went on a hunt. Over the next year, he got his hands dirty. Then, as he made friends and met other hunters and hunted, the knowledge that came with it. The satisfaction at researching the monsters he hunted. At twenty two, moving out to the middle of nowhere, and continuing research from there. 

Nixon had to get up to refill his drink twice, but he talked for over an hour. He finished with a small smile. “And then you showed up, and I guess the rest is history.” They sat in comfortable silence for a couple of moments, before Dick cautiously extended a hand, placing it over Nixon’s. Nixon barely dared to breathe, for fear of messing anything up. He carefully met Dick’s blue eyes. 

“Thank you, Lew.” Dick said, rubbing a thumb across Nixon’s knuckles. Nixon smiled a small, blushy smile at the table. Somehow, he had a feeling that they had bridged an important moment. Later, they stood side by side, washing and drying dishes (respectively), listening to the soft crackle of the radio, feeling a soft summer breeze float in through the window. Dick’s wing kept bumping into Nixon’s shoulder, a comforting pressure as they worked side by side. And even though Nixon could still feel the alcohol coursing through his body, he had no need for more. 

Later, as they watched their nightly news, they sat next to one another on the couch, and halfway through Dick nodded off, his head falling onto Nixon’s shoulder. Nixon made himself comfortable with an endearing grumble. After all, the couch had room for two. 

 

In the morning, it was as if the invisible wall of tension between them had dissipated. Both parties, however, were cautious not to fracture their newfound trust. Nixon was woken early by Dick, who made them French toast and smoothies with fresh fruit for breakfast. They attempted small talk over the table, as their relationship seemed like it could benefit from simple conversation. 

After breakfast, Dick announced that he wanted to take a day to learn. Nixon was surprised. It turned out that by ‘learn’, Dick meant sit on the couch all day, reading and occasionally asking Nixon a question. Nixon was happy to oblige. As soon as Dick latched onto the idea that monsters were real, he was totally open to whatever Nixon had to tell him. Nixon interjected with stories of times he hunted this monster or that beast, recalling the events of his hunting career. Dick listened to them with open ears, in awe of the tales that Lewis Nixon told. Nixon told Dick then about his web of hunters. 

Nixon told Dick about Harry and Kitty, and how when he left the one time it was to help them. He mentioned inviting all of his hunter friends for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and Dick seemed to perk up at the idea. Nixon knew that Dick liked his solitude as much as anyone, but after living only together after a month, you yearned to see other people, to have conversation with others. 

Dick made dinner that night, a classic steak and potatoes. That night, Nixon was invited back to his own bed. Nixon almost cried as he stretched out on the mattress, eternally grateful that he wouldn’t have to sleep on the hideous couch one more time, at least in the foreseeable future. Dick was another thing to be grateful to sleep with. “C’mere,” Nixon mumbled sleepily, pulling Dick’s winged back towards him. He pressed his face into the warm skin between Dick’s feathers, feeling the soft feathers around his wings tickle his nose. 

Dick hummed, placing his hand over Nixon’s, where it rested on his sternum. There was a moment of comfortable silence before he said, very quietly, “I missed you.” 

Nixon became very still. It was apparent Dick was talking about the past few nights of sleeping in separate locations. Dick’s thumb rubbed across the back of Nixon’s palm. Nixon pressed a soft kiss onto the back of his neck. “I missed you too,” he said, thanking his lucky stars that Dick had somehow seen past all the flaws and had accepted Nixon for who he was. Nixon almost felt like he was being enveloped by Dick’s golden grace again, that kind of divine love that he had only felt when he was with Dick. 

Nixon, suddenly overcome by emotion, turned away, muttering, “Thanks for staying with my sorry drunken ass.” He felt Dick’s arms encompass him, his wings shifting to spill off of the edge of the bed. 

Dick didn’t say anything. How he held Nixon that night was words enough. 


	6. The Final Countdown (Is Kinda Boring, Actually)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are domestic and so boring but so exciting!!

The next morning, over a breakfast of oatmeal and toast, Nixon and Dick decided it was time to go grocery shopping. Together. 

To others, that would seem a normal and inconsequential decision to make, but for the two of them, it was exciting and stressful and nerve-wracking all at the same time, because while it only meant getting groceries together, it meant so much more to Nixon and Dick. They knew that Arden would be keeping his eyes out, and that as soon as Dick went into public, wings out and face open to all of the many security cameras they would pass, Arden would know. 

It was terrifying, how mundane and yet life-threatening their actions were. They got dressed, and both hopped onto the motorcycle. Dick slipped his arms around Nixon’s waist to keep himself in place, feathers blowing in the breeze behind him. Nixon felt free, the wind in his hair and his angel at his back. The road, eating away beneath his wheels. Dick’s laugh, stolen by the wind and the sunlight filtering through the trees overhead. The enormity of what they were about to do. 

 

“So, two boxes of Cheerios or three?” Nixon asked, some time later. Dick stood, leaning on the handlebar of his shopping cart. 

“Three,” he responded, picking out a container of steel-cut oats. “Make sure you get the honey ones.” Nixon picked out three boxes accordingly, setting them in the bottom of the shopping cart. A pop song that Nixon faintly remembered from 2003 played softly above them. The pair moved on down the aisle, and Nixon drew a line through ‘cereal’ on his grocery list. 

The original excitement had worn off pretty quickly once they were inside the store. No one stopped them or gave them weird looks. Dick’s wings got a couple of glances, but other than that the couple didn’t get any special attention. They meandered the aisles, picking out enough food to last them a couple of weeks. 

While they were there, they picked out a razor and comb and soap that was Dick’s, and only his. He had been sharing with Nixon, or using whatever cheap kind he could get his hands on, but it felt significant to Nixon, for some reason. Like Dick was settling down, for once. It made Nixon pleased to see him making a permanent place for himself in his home. It made him not so scared for the future. 

Nixon had always been enemies with his inevitable future. It scared him and was comforting at the same time, how everything had been slogging along exactly as Nixon wanted it to. Sure, there hadn’t really been anyone in his life, and his alcohol consumption was awfully high, but he was okay with that. 

Then, Dick had entered his life and turned that all around. Nixon saw himself sitting on a porch swing with the man, looking out into the sunset, content with life. That was terrifying, yet to look ahead to that felt so damn nice, like Nixon could finally sit back and relax, knowing that everything would be okay. 

Meanwhile, the angel that had changed Nixon’s life was absently sniffing at different deodorants, his wings drawn close to his spine so he could easily navigate the narrow store aisles. Everything was so boringly mundane and domestic, and Nixon loved every second. 

Dick held two sticks of deodorant out to Nixon. “I can’t decide, which one do you like better?” Nixon sniffed at both. 

“Pine.” he said, and the matter was settled. The enormity of the action seemed lost on Dick. Nixon was in awe. Dick had let Nixon choose what he smelled like, for Pete’s sake. They moved on to the beverage aisle. For once, Nixon passed the Vat 69 with barely a flicker of a doubt. Dick sent Nixon a smile, then pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. 

Nixon felt his face heat up, which was stupid, and then he had to fight off an idiotic grin. That tiny sign of affection that Dick had shown him had Nixon’s heart fluttering in his chest. Nixon caught up to Dick, who was still pushing the shopping cart, and twined their fingers together, sending a small smile back at Dick. 

In the safety of the house in the middle of nowhere, their love seemed special and different. Here, Nixon realized that no one cared that they were a couple. As they walked through the store, holding hands, no one gave them a funny look or treated them any differently. It was amazing. 

Nixon left Dick at the checking counter with his credit card while Nixon went to the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror, not recognizing himself for a moment. He had slimmed down a little, but there was a new light in his eyes. A new sort of enthusiasm, perhaps. His mouth naturally curved upwards, instead of downwards. Nixon smiled at himself in the mirror, pleased. 

When he walked back to Dick, his heart sank when he saw someone talking to Dick. Dick looked cornered. Nixon rushed over. Dick looked over, relieved. “You’re Richard Winters! You’re the man on television!” a middle-aged woman said loudly, almost stabbing Dick with her pointer finger. The cashier glanced over, his eyes staying on Dick a moment longer than they should have. 

“Let’s go,” Dick whispered to Nixon, who began collecting their bags of groceries. “I’m sorry, ma’am, you must be mistaken,” Dick said to the woman, slowly backing up. The woman continued, following them, 

“No, I saw on the news! You’re on the run!” Dick practically ran to the motorcycle, as Nixon scrambled to fit all of their groceries into the box he had secured to the back. They got their helmets on and blasted off, leaving the loud woman in the parking lot. As they pulled away, Nixon saw in his rearview mirror that she had pulled out her cellphone and was calling someone, her eyes on their backs. 

Dick’s arms tightened around Nixon’s waist as they rode home. 

Somehow, preparing for either a shitstorm of reporters and press to show up and/or the man that had been hunting Dick was oddly boring. They squared away all of their groceries, parked the motorcycle in the garage, and went back to business as usual. Nixon taught Dick all the ways in which to kill a demon (though there were very few), and gave him a sort of general rundown on different kinds of monsters. They were fairly sure that arden was, in fact, a demon instead of a human, based on what Metrian said, but they still prepared for the worst.

Nixon brought out his jugs of holy water from the basement, filled plastic bags with them. He gave Dick small packets of rock salt that could easily be thrown at Arden when he arrived. Nixon, on a whim, went to the field outside the house and took a deep breath, looking straight into the blue sky. Then, he turned on his heel, enough to stop and see the house in front of him. He looked over the red walls, the new white trim that Dick had installed, the little details only he knew about the house. Through the window, he could see the top of Dick’s wing. The sun was warm at his back, the air comfortable and soothing. Nixon felt incredibly at peace.  _ Yes, I will fight for this with my life,  _ he thought. 

And as he walked back up the steps, into the house, that thought resolved into a definite decision. 

 

That night, neither Nixon nor Dick wanted to go to sleep. They lay in bed, keyed up with emotion, still almost fully dressed. Dick’s wing covered Nixon like a blanket, and as Nixon ran his hand over the primary feathers, he was entranced by the soft blue light slipping out between Dick’s eyelids. 

“So, how does your Grace work, exactly?” Nixon asked. 

Dick’s eyes opened slowly, the light fading away to nothingness. “I better start at the beginning,” he said softly, his hand finding the side of Nixon’s neck. Nixon nodded. “The first angels, the real angels, they lived in heaven and communicated with God and were these holy beings. They had Grace, a sort of pure, healing energy that ran within them. If they lost their Grace while in a human vessel, they became human. 

“So, back when God apparently left, the angels were all cast out of heaven. They fell to the earth and their wings were physical, people say as a reminder to the angels, what they had lost. These new, earthbound angels were mortal, but they still had Grace. As they had children, they realized that their children had wings and Grace too, just less than their parents. 

“And so over the years, angels have less and less Grace to start with. Now, Graces can be recharged through emotion. If I’m happy, my Grace slowly replenishes. But when other people are happy with me, or for me, I can sense that, my Grace can sense that, and that sort of positive emotion is what recharges my Grace the fastest. Sometimes it helps to have contact, but it’s not necessary.” 

Nixon listened, fascinated. As Dick talked, he reached out and twined their fingers together, experimentally sending a thread of love, the most positive emotion Nixon knew, to Dick, through their fingers. Dick’s eyes began to glow, and a slow smile crossed his face. 

“Perfect.” he said, pressing a kiss to Nixon’s knuckles. 

“So, wait, you can feel that?” Nixon asked. For a moment, it scared him that Dick was able to sense just how much Nixon loved him. 

“Yes. Even when you aren’t trying, I can sense it.” Dick said, brushing his thumb across Nixon’s knuckles. He smiled at Nixon then, such a smile of reassurance and love and gratitude all at once that all Nixon could do was lean forward and press their lips together, softly, before they drifted to sleep. 

 

\--

 

Lewis Nixon awoke with a jolt. He sat up, pausing in the still air as Dick sat up beside him. They glanced at one another, Nixon already fully awake and moving towards the window. He looked out, and saw, just on the edge of his field, a horse and its rider moving at top speeds towards the house. “He’s coming,” Nixon breathed as he hurried away from the window. Dick followed, throwing on a jacket and following Nixon down the stairs. 

The exorcism had been burned into Nixon’s brain by experience and necessity, the only weapons he carried were his bags of holy water, his packets of salt, and his shotgun packed with rock salt and iron shells. The bullets in the pistol tucked into the waistband of his jeans were stamped with Devil’s Traps, to keep Arden chained to his vessel. Dick carried an iron poker from the fireplace, which he held loosely in his hand, like a baseball bat. They stood together, on the porch, looking out over the field, gray in the moonlight. Nixon silently sent Dick one final look of solidarity. Dick sent back a nervous smile, almost a promise. Then, they both descended the steps and walked out into the field. 

As the horse drew close, Nixon fired his pistol three times, and saw that his second and third shots hit Arden’s shoulder. His body jerked, falling off of his horse. The horse reared and when Dick spread his wings to their full extent, silver and brilliant in the moonlight, the horse spooked and ran the other way. Arden, meanwhile, was struggling to his feet some twenty feet away. He extended a hand, and Dick was suddenly floating. Arden’s arm jerked and Dick was flying through the air, straight for Arden. He swung his iron poker, and it connected solidly with Arden’s chin. Arden dropped Dick and Dick rolled, landing hard on the ground. 

Nixon began the exorcism in a loud voice. He got three words in before Arden’s ghost grip was on his throat, silencing him. Nixon, struggling to breathe, pulled out one of his plastic bags of holy water. He lobbed it at Arden, and saw some of it splash onto the demon’s feet as Arden’s grip around his throat loosened. Nixon coughed, choking out the exorcism as he tried to regain air in his lungs. 

Arden twitched, a tiny tendril of black smoke escaping his mouth. Dick leaped on Arden from behind, pressing his iron poker across Arden’s throat. “Nix, now!” Dick called. Nixon ran closer, reciting the exorcism and loading another shot in his rifle. 

“I should have killed you when I had the chance!” Arden spat out, clawing at Dick’s forearms around his chest. They writhed on the ground, Arden’s throat hissing from the contact with iron. Nixon recited as fast as possible. 

Arden began to twitch, coughing as smoke bubbled from his lips. He extended a hand, and Nixon felt the phantom grip around his chest. He was rising up and all too quickly, he was thrown against the ground. The wind knocked out of him, Nixon struggled to stand. he could hear that Dick was still fighting Arden in the dust beside him. 

Nixon felt like his limbs were filled with lead. He tried to stand, his entire body protesting the movement. Black spots swam in front of his vision, and his head throbbed painfully with every movement. Still, Nixon willed his tongue to work. The exorcism continued. 

Nixon was only halfway done when he heard Dick cry out in pain. His litany of latin words wavered for a moment as he glanced over, worried, at the two fighting. It appeared as if Arden’s teeth had latched into Dick’s forearm, and he wasn’t letting go any time soon. The waver in Nixon’s exorcism was enough for Arden to gain the upper hand, kicking at Dick. 

Nixon pulled out another plastic bag of holy water, upturning it over the fight as he continued the exorcism. It hissed and steamed as it hit Arden’s skin. He released Dick’s arm in favor of screaming, his skin bubbling and red. Arden reached out and tried to drag Nixon’s head down. Nixon fought against his phantom grip as he continued, seeing blood dripping from Dick’s forearm. Arden coughed smoke, fiery depths shimmering below them. 

Dick began to back away as Arden writhed, smoke pouring from his mouth. Nixon was feeling faint, the edges of his vision creeping inward. Still, he recited the exorcism like it was the only thing he was put on earth to do. And for a moment, the exorcism was the only thing he wanted--he needed--to fight for. 

Dick’s eyes met Nixon’s as Arden’s demonic soul exited his body, once and for all. One it was over and the glow from Hell far below had faded, Nixon slumped over, exhaustion taking over his body. Dick rushed to his side, blood smeared across his forehead as he clutched at his freely bleeding arm. Nixon couldn’t help thinking that he looked an awful lot like the first time he had ever seen Dick. 

“Lew! No, no, no, stay with me, Nix, this is important.” Dick’s voice was growing more distant by the minute. 

“‘M just a little tired.” Nixon said. “My head hurts.” His eyes focused on the smear of blood on Dick’s forehead. Dick’s eyes were so very blue in comparison to the stark red of the blood, in comparison to his fiery red hair. His eyes almost seemed to be glowing, they were so bright. 

Oh. 

And then they were glowing, while Dick’s wings opened up behind him, framing the stars behind his head and all Nixon could do was stare and think that though the angels fell over a thousand years ago, they still had some of the divine in them, for damn sure. 

Sunlight slowly poured into Nixon’s chest, even though it was the middle of the night and the moon was out, sunlight slowly infiltrated Nixon’s veins. He felt tingly all over, like he was floating away from his human pain and existence. Nixon wondered, for a moment, if he was dying. 

Then his eyes slowly opened and Dick sat in front of him, panting, visibly shaking, and sweaty. “You healed me,” Nixon said, voicing his realization. “You’re hurt.” he said a moment later. 

“Small cost,” Dick said, not denying anything. 

“You’re so fucking stupid sometimes, you know?” Nixon growled as he lunged forward, sending an overwhelming wave of love towards the man in front of him. Their lips connected and the kiss was messy and bloody and Dick was bleeding into Nixon’s shirt, but it was the most powerful kiss of Nixon’s life. 

In Nixon’s mind, his entire life with dick flashed through his mind, faster than a bullet. Dick’s eyes, wide with shock and fear as he ran into Nixon’s life. Sleeping most of the day as he recovered. The soft red hair, revealed to be underneath the mud and dirt. Wings, so red against the blue sky. Dick’s bare back as he dove into the water. Their lips finally brushing. Dick’s eyelashes against his face as he slept. The soft downy feathers where his wings connected to his shoulder blades. The little tunes Dick would whistle in the morning while he was making breakfast. The small smiles exchanged between them as morning coffee traded hands. 

Nixon felt as if he were disintegrating into bubbles of glitter and sunshine. He almost sobbed, he was so happy. Dick pulled away for breath, the blue light from his eyes fading. “You did it, Lew,” Dick breathed against Nixon’s cheek. “You healed me,” 

Nixon pulled Dick away to inspect him. Sure enough, the bite on Dick’s arm was healed, and so was the cut on his forehead. Nixon’s eyes, dark and earthly, met Dick’s, which were blue and filled with stars. And all Nixon could do was laugh and silently thank the universe for handing him his happiness. 


	7. An Epilogue, Of Sorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go back to normal (or, as normal as can be).

Nixon always hated the cleanup after a wild night out. This was no different. They woke early in the morning after collapsing on their bed in a tangle of limbs. Nixon may have been healed, but he was still incredibly sore after it all. Seeing Dick hobble around as well somehow made Nixon feel a little better. 

Arden’s funeral was fiery and solemn with an underlying sense of joyous relief. Dick stood close beside Nixon, averting his eyes as Arden’s corpse caught fire. They had spent most of the morning digging the grave, and soaking the corpse in gasoline was the next step. They had seen ahead and dug next to their garden, so that displaced dirt looked like a project, not hiding a body. 

In the afternoon, when the body had burned through as much as possible, and only charred bones remained, Nixon and Dick silently shoveled dirt on top of the body, packing it as they went. Dick, for good measure, dug a few inches in a similar fashion nearby, so that it looked like two new garden beds. 

When they turned on the news, the first thing they were greeted with was Dick’s face, enlarged from the grainy stills of the supermarket security feed. These were shown side-by-side to the old pictures of Dick. The news reporter talked about how they had found Richard Winters, and an unidentified man he seemed to be in a relationship with. As Nixon nestled his cheek onto Dick’s chest as they stretched out across the couch, the screen flashed to pictures of Nixon. There was a still from them kissing and then another of them holding hands. Nixon found it all very hilarious. 

He gazed up at Dick. “Are you ready?” he asked, quietly. “To tell local reporters that you’ve been living with an alcoholic recluse for almost three months now?” 

Dick smiled softly down at Nixon. His hand slipped under Nixon’s shirt, resting on his lower spine. “As long as you’re beside me in front of all of those cameras, I’m good.” he said. And Nixon was pleased with that answer. The next day, they called the local news station, drove into town and met them at their office. They asked Dick questions and he told the almost-truth: that he ran away from the fire and the authorities and ran, hurt and scared, right into Nixon’s house. He told them how Nixon helped him heal and took care of him. As he talked, he slipped his hand into Nixon’s, on camera. Nixon had to try hard to remain stoic and calm on the outside. 

The camera crew insisted on coming to Nixon’s house, but Nixon and Dick calmly refused them. They claimed it would be invasive and would rather not have their home broadcast on live television. The crew eventually relented, and Nixon and Dick were able to eat out for the first time since they met. 

They went to a Mexican restaurant, and spent forty minutes picking off of each other’s meals. As they were finishing, the six o’clock news came on, and Dick was the main story. A couple of other diners gave them a couple of lingering glances, but Nixon and Dick decided it was time to leave. 

Nixon drove home, his headlight casting an oval of white light onto the road in front of him. The wind whipped through Dick’s feathers, and the stars were very bright above Nixon’s head. The road passed quickly beneath his tires, and their two souls were infinite in an ever-changing landscape before them. Dick’s arms secure around Nixon’s waist, the rumbling motorcycle below them; it was perfect. 

The road to Nixon’s house burst from the woods at the back of the field, and followed the perimeter until it curved to follow the trees, and led straight to Nixon’s house. As they pulled out of the woods, Nixon slowed to barely a crawl. Dick looked at him quizzically. Nixon gazed out over his field, dark gray in the moonlight. The trees, nearly black, all around them. The moon casting her perfect white light over everything. And then, before them, the soft yellow lights of Nixon’s house. He could barely see the edges of the house, all that he could see was those lights floating, almost, over the field and in front of the dark ridge of trees. 

Nixon felt safe in that moment. Safe and incredibly happy, gazing at his home, alone in the world but still incredibly warm and welcoming. Somehow, the things that moved in the shadows were irrelevant as long as Nixon had his home and his angel, however finite they may be. 

 

\--

 

Lunch was, for once, made by Nixon. He was preparing something simple for Dick: sandwiches. It was easy enough, right? He stood by the counter while Dick sat at the table, wings taking up most of the room in the kitchen. he was reading a book and Nixon was humming old songs from the 40s that he faintly remembered his father playing when he was a kid. 

Suddenly, Nixon’s phone buzzed from where it was nestled in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was a number he didn’t know. He took a moment to answer. “Hello?” he asked. 

“Nix, you dog!” Came the distinct voice of Bill Guarnere. 

Nixon sighed, jamming the phone in between the side of his head and his shoulder, effectively holding it in place while he continued making the sandwiches. “Hey, Bill.” Nixon said. 

“So, we got a bit of a case on our hands here, Babe and I.” Bill had always been one to cut to the chase. 

But Babe? At first, Nixon didn’t know who Bill was talking about. Then he remembered. “Right, right. That kid you picked up from Philly.” 

“That’s the one,” Bill said. Nixon slices chicken breast into smaller pieces. “Anyways, we got a whole lot of nothing here, and a little bit of your esteemed help would be most welcome.” Bill said. Nixon stayed silent, an invitation for Bill to explain the case on his hands. Bill went on to explain the case, and as Nixon layered chicken and avocado and lettuce, he came to a conclusion based off of the evidence Bill had given him. 

“Well, it sounds like a shapeshifter to me. Those things feed off of animals and/or humans, depending on how deep their morality runs. It surprises me that it only ate the hearts of these victims. Generally something like that would eat the whole body.” Nixon stopped for a moment, seeing the provolone cheese and cheddar cheese before him, both options for Dick’s sandwich.  “Dick, what kind of cheese do you want on this?” Nixon asked, turning around and holding up both. 

Dick glanced up from his book. “Provolone, please.” was accompanied by a small smile. 

“Who is this Dick, Nix?” Bill’s voice crackled through the phone. Nixon turned his attention back to the call, layering cheese on the final layer of Dick’s sandwich. 

“Aw, shut up.” Nix answered, a stupid smile spreading across his face. “You’ll meet him soon enough. Anyway, I wish you guys luck on this thing, I’ll look into it and get back to you.” he flipped the top piece of bread onto the sandwich and cut it in half diagonally. With a melodramatic flourish, he placed it in front of Dick. 

“Alright, thanks Nix.” Bill’s voice came through, before both signed off. 

“Thanks, Lew.” Dick said, shutting his book. He sat up off of his chair and leaned forward, pressing a small kiss to Nixon’s lips. He bit into his sandwich. “Perfect,” he smiled. 

 

\--

 

Dick had to relearn how to fly. His wing had healed but he was still unsteady using it, and in his weeks of recovery, he had lost muscle. Nixon perched on the roof of the house, basking in the sunlight. He wore a thin jacket, as there was a brisk chill of the promise of fall in the air. It was still Pennsylvania, however, and it would be humid and hot until October 1st. 

Below him, Dick flew fast and low over the field, his red-gold wings spread in all of their splendor. If Nixon thought they were magnificent while he was on the ground, it was a whole other thing to see Dick flying. He flew straight into the air, spinning and hanging, weightless, for a moment before diving back towards the earth. He took off, flying upwards, over the forest. Then, he gently coasted down towards the house. 

Nixon watched him until Dick was too close to the ground for Nixon to see from his vantage point. He knew, if he stood up and walked and looked over to where he could look over the garden, in the back of the house, he would see the hardy winter plants that Dick had planted earlier poking through the dirt of Arden’s grave. 

Dick suddenly soared up in front of the house, just ten feet from Nixon. His head eclipsed the late afternoon sun, and his wings seemed to be positively glowing. To Nixon, his smile was more radiant and warmer than the sun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly have no words. I got so committed to this work, and as I'm writing this, twenty minutes after I finished the fic, I can't believe that this story is over.   
> I feel like I've really stepped into a new era of my writing with this. This is the longest fic I've ever written, and it's about the boys that redefined the OTP for me. I'm so glad I got to share this story with all of you.


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